


Tuesdays at the Lark

by MaloryArcher



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/F, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-04 19:30:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 95,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6672700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaloryArcher/pseuds/MaloryArcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Clarke and Lexa are college students who seem to keep crossing paths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All right folks, this is my first fic and I'm not sure what I want it to be yet. Thanks for checking it out, and feel free to leave comments (esp. constructive criticism)!

The cursor blinks up at Clarke from her blank word document, which isn't really blank if she considers her name typed in the top left corner. She feels like it's mocking her. She's been sitting on the slightly uncomfortable wooden bench seat for at least half an hour with her laptop and notebook spread out on the small table. She's in her favorite spot, the booth closest to the ordering counter against the far wall, but facing the front door. If she listens carefully beyond the vaguely folksy station that plays on loop, she can hear the murmur of the small refrigerator filled with Naked juice and Kombucha. It's abnormally quiet for a Tuesday afternoon, which Clarke knows because she's at Meadowlark almost every Tuesday afternoon.  


Usually, she does her best work in this very booth, slamming cups of fair trade coffee and cranking out assignments with ease, but today it's almost two p.m., and Clarke has been staring at the dusty orange paint on the walls for what feels like forever. Well, not _just_ the dusty orange paint. Every few seconds her eyes drift towards the girl in the far corner near the door, right between the row of bookshelves and the spinning rack of watercolor postcards, and Clarke has to redirect her eyes to the walls to keep from staring. There are a few other people sitting throughout the coffee shop, most of them alone, like Clarke, with ceramic mugs and laptops and furrowed brows, but Clarke barely notices them.  


The bookshelf closest to the girl is a rainbow of hardcovers and archived magazines, and, no matter how hard she tries, Clarke can't stop eyeing the girl as she peruses the covers. From across the room, Clarke watches long fingers graze the spines of those books, periodically pulling one down and cracking it open only to skim a few sentences and then returning it to its spot on the shelf. Each time she realizes she's been staring, Clarke forces herself to look away, adjusting and readjusting her laptop screen, flipping a page in her notebook, capping and uncapping her pen. Then, almost involuntarily, she looks back to the girl across the room. To the girl with sprawling brown curls and glasses with thick, round, brown frames. To the girl so engrossed with her book selection that she hasn't noticed Clarke's lurking yet.  


There's something about the way the girl touches each book, gently and seemingly without purpose, that baffles Clarke. By now, the girl must have read at least a little of every book she can reach without standing, but she still hasn't found one worth committing to.  


Clarke isn't sure why, considering her lab report is due in less than twenty-four hours to her less-than forgiving Chemistry TA, but she digs the worn sketchbook and a couple of her best pencils from her backpack. She's already spent too much time staring at this girl, so what's a little more? Clarke doesn't claim to know much, but she knows this girl is beautiful. She's the kind of beautiful that needs to be immortalized.  


Clarke moves her still open notebook under her laptop and shifts the sketchbook to its place, sliding one sharpened pencil with a finely pointed tip into the binding and taking one with a broader point into her left hand. She gives up on worrying about being noticed by anyone else in the shop. It's easy, Clarke thinks, to focus on this girl. To focus on sketching the gentle curve of her glasses and the sharp angle of her jaw instead of the stream of people trickling in the front door, disappearing momentarily to the counter behind Clarke, and then leaving with steaming paper cups in their hands. Far easier to focus on this girl, the way her tongue sometimes peaks out between her lips as she reads, then disappears again as she deposits another book on the shelf than the write-up Clarke's been putting off for days.  


She's trying her best to capture the way the girl's nose scrunched –only once that Clarke could see, while she looked at a small book with a green cover—when a guy comes into the shop. He's tall, bald, and almost as perplexingly beautiful as the girl. Maybe beautiful is the wrong word, Clarke thinks, for someone with shoulders _that_ broad and muscles that announce themselves even through his baggy hoodie and shorts. Striking, she thinks. Striking fits better.  


Clarke sees the guy notice the girl first, while the girl is still aimlessly picking and pulling out books, and her heart sinks as he calls out a quiet, but barely audible, "Hey stranger." The girl looks up, and for the first time in an hour of admittedly creepy staring, Clarke sees a wide, toothy smile spread across her face. The girl rises out of the armchair she's been basically glued to just in time to be engulfed in what looks like a pretty tight hug from muscle-guy. Just as well, Clarke thinks, that a girl that gorgeous would have a boy to match.  


Clarke forces herself to look away from the two of them and back at her sketch. It's rough, but she can definitely make out the girl's untamed brown curls, the shape of her face, the lines of her nose, the set of thin shoulders in a soft-looking gray sweater. It doesn't hold a candle to the real thing, but Clarke suspects no drawing ever could. Even though she wants to finish it, like _really_ wants to finish it, Clarke gently closes her sketchbook. She forbids herself from looking at the couple, the girl back in her armchair and the guy who's settled into the busted-looking recliner opposite her, his back to Clarke. It mostly works. She barely notices their quiet laughter. She even gets three sentences into her write-up before they're getting up, walking toward her. Her heart races, and Clarke bites her lip hard to keep from glancing at them as they move nearer to, and then past her booth.  


When the girl orders a coffee, _a drip_ she calls it, Clarke is as mesmerized by her voice, by the quiet confidence it boasts, as she was by her face. It's silly, and Clarke knows it. She doesn't know a thing about this girl, except that she's a beautiful, literate, coffee drinker with a statuesque boyfriend, but Clarke can't concentrate on anything or anyone else as long as she's around her.  


Clarke waits until they're sitting down again to close the lid of her computer and slide her belongings back into her bag. She fits her bag onto her shoulders, drops off her mug in the plastic dish return tub next to the cream and sugar, and gives a small wave to Finn, the shaggy haired guy almost always working the counter on Tuesdays.  


"Leaving already, Princess," he calls out, leaning lazily over the counter. Clarke knows it's because of the crown attached to her keychain. She rolls her eyes at the nickname even though he already knows she doesn't mind it. They see each other almost every Tuesday. "You haven't even had your third cup yet."  


"I'm not sure even a third cup'll get me through this chemistry report," she says, not quite touching the counter.  


"If you ever need a tutor," he starts, raising an eyebrow at her and running a hand through the hair falling into his eyes, "you know where to find me."  


"You any good at chemistry?"  


"I learn a little more about it every Tuesday, Princess," he says, winking very deliberately at Clarke, and she can't help but smile.  


"You're shameless, you know that?"  


"You bring it out in me."  


"See you next week, Finn," Clarke says, backing away from the counter, "and feel free to start calling me 'Clarke' in the meantime."  


"Tuesday, 'Clarke in the meantime'," he says.  


Clarke shakes her head and spins on her heel, just in time to catch the eye of the girl she's been alternately staring at and avoiding. Green eyes, maybe the greenest Clarke's ever seen, look into hers, and Clarke swears something in her just _shifts_. It feels like she's run into a literal wall, forcing all the air out of her lungs, which is appropriate because, at that very moment, Clarke smacks into the glass door, chest first. And the girl laughs. It's polite, and she tries to smother it in her sleeve, but she laughs and Clarke is mortified.  


_Great_ , Clarke thinks, _just perfect_. The heat flares high in her cheeks and down to her chest as Clarke pushes past the door and into the parking lot without sparing another look for the girl who monopolized her Tuesday.  


Maybe, if Clarke had turned back to the other girl once more, she might've seen the concern in those green eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same day, Lexa's POV

Lincoln's hug lifts Lexa off her feet. He intentionally squeezes her ribs a little too tightly and shakes her side to side until she laughs much harder than she expects to. When Lincoln lets her down, Lexa can't help but smile fondly at him.

"You look good," she says, giving him a once over and pausing on his faded orange hoodie, "but Texas has really changed you."

He tugs at the hem of his hoodie as though he can't remember what he's wearing and smirks, "You try spending an entire semester in 'Longhorn country' without looking the part. I had to assimilate somehow." 

Lexa rolls her eyes and drops back into her armchair while Lincoln settles into the recliner across from her. He props his feet onto the edge of the small end table between them and she does the same. Over Lincoln's shoulder, Lexa sees a flash of blonde hair. There's a girl, apparently hard at work on something important, her wavy hair falling in a curtain and shielding her face. And behind her is a shaggy looking boy working the counter and sneaking a glimpse at the girl with the beautiful hair. 

"It's really good to see your face, Lex. Skype doesn't do you justice." 

"I haven't showered in two days, but your flattery is a nice change of pace from Anya following me around campus calling me 'Frumpy Smurf'," Lexa says. 

"What a relief," Lincoln says before letting out a dramatic huff, "not sure how I'd cope if Anya miraculously became the nice one. I just don't have her talent for snark." 

"You'll always be the nice one, Lincoln," Lexa says, "it's why you're such a great teacher." 

"Student-teacher," he amends, but his eyes are suspiciously shiny, and Lexa knows he's thinking of the pint-sized preschoolers he spent the last six months getting to know while student teaching in Texas. 

"Tell me everything," she asks, and she means it. Lexa knows that Lincoln missed her and Anya and all their other friends, but she also knows that he loved every second in his classroom. Almost immediately, Lincoln's gushing about his students, about learning how to properly paint-proof a carpeted play area and the happy accident of wearing the same Spiderman pajamas as two of his students during spirit week. Lexa listens intently until Lincoln stops, almost mid-sentence, and suggests grabbing coffees before he gets ahead of himself. 

They get up and Lexa chances another look at the blonde girl. She wants to see her face when it isn't obscured by her hair and twenty feet of distance. She's careful not to move her head, and she only gets a couple seconds before she and Lincoln reach the counter and the blonde disappears into her periphery, but she _can't_ not look. In that limited time, Lexa is hyper aware of the slight blush across the girl's cheek, the pucker of her lip trapped in her teeth. And, if she didn't know any better, Lexa would think that the other girl was avoiding her gaze. 

The guy at the register, the one who seems as curious as Lexa is about the blonde, asks for their order. His nametag says Finn and he's effortlessly charming in the two minute exchange that the three of them share. Lexa thinks he fits in well here, in this cozy coffee shop with warm, orange walls and an eclectic collection of books she might like to, but probably won't, read. 

Lexa and Lincoln reclaim their seats, and Lexa tries to focus again on her friend, instead of obsessing over strange girls who avoid looking at her. It almost works, until she sees the blonde grabbing her stuff and chatting with the barista. Lincoln is saying something, something about another student-teacher he met in Houston she thinks, and from the way he lights up she knows the girl must be pretty special. Lexa wants to be listening, but instead she's subtly studying Finn leaning on the counter and speaking to the blonde with the corners of his lips quirked up. _I could hate him_ , Lexa thinks, even though she has no logical reason to hate the boy with the easy grin. 

The blonde is backing away from the counter and Lexa's brain tries to tell her eyes to cut away, but they don't. When the girl turns around, Lexa curses her brain for its ineffectiveness, or at least she would if she wasn't staring into bright, blue eyes. As soon as their eyes make contact, Lexa swears that something in her just _clicks_. The girl's wavy hair is tucked behind her ear, and for the first time Lexa sees her whole face. And it's a great face. So great, in fact that Lexa doesn't even notice the other girl is on a crash course until she hits the glass door. 

Lexa's reaction is immediate, something caught between disbelief and second-hand embarrassment, and it comes out as a nervous laugh in a huff against her sleeve. But before Lexa, or Lincoln who's on his feet already, can help, the girl is out the door and rushing into the parking lot. Lexa watches her go, just for a couple seconds. 

"Glad to know the 'Lexa Effect' is still a thing," Lincoln says. 

"I have no idea what you mean," Lexa says, scrunching her face enough that her glasses are slightly askew. 

"Of course you don't, Lex," he says lightly, and from anyone else it might be sarcastic, "but that girl just learned all about it."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke's POV, same day.

By the time Clarke gets home from Meadowlark she's found an effective strategy for getting over the embarrassment of the glass door incident. In short, she's pretending it didn't happen. Clarke pointedly ignores the subtle soreness of her chest and tells herself she didn't lock eyes with the most disarmingly attractive girl she's ever seen. In fact, Clarke assures herself that there was no girl. No brown curls. No green eyes. No cute scrunchy nose. Clarke tells herself the entire day was some wicked fever dream, minus the fever.

But there's still the sketch. If Clarke would crack open her sketchbook to the right page, she'd still see that same half-finished drawing. She'd be confronted with those curls and a loose approximation of that scrunchy nose thing, and then she'd have to admit that the girl was real, and so was the strange feeling in Clarke's chest. 

It's easiest not to open the sketchbook. 

Clarke walks in to the front door of her small house and mostly leaves her thoughts behind her. Well, a part of her is still picturing those green eyes. And an entirely different part is still considering Finn's shameless flirting. 

In the living room, Wells and Bellamy are on the couch with their backs to the door, trash talking each other and staring at the split screen on the TV. They're so immersed in their FIFA game that they don't even flinch until Clarke closes the door. Even then, it's a fleeting glance from both, a "hey" from Wells, and a "'sup" from Bellamy. Clarke tosses her sneakers onto the pile next to the door and ruffles Bellamy's hair affectionately as she passes the couch en route to the short hallway that leads to Clarke and Octavia's rooms. Clarke ditches her backpack on her bed and pokes her head into the other girl's open doorway. 

Octavia is upside down, her back straight against the far wall, hands spread on either side of her head and toes pointing to the ceiling. Every inch of her skin not covered by sports bra or yoga pants is flushed and Clarke doesn't even want to know how long she's been like this. 

"Trying to scare me, Griffin?" Octavia doesn't open her eyes, or even release her headstand. 

"Like it would work," Clarke says with a fond smile, "how's the whole yogi zen master thing coming?" 

"It's a breeze, Clarkey," she says, but Clarke can see Octavia swaying almost imperceptibly, "what's up?" 

"Random question: doesn't your brother have any other friends," Clarke asks, projecting enough to be heard in the living room, "maybe some who don't live here?" She doesn't miss the "hardy har, Griffin," from Bellamy. 

"Is he here again?" Octavia's forehead creases even as she keeps her eyes shut. 

"They're playing FIFA," Clarke says, as the other girl starts to wobble. 

"If you wanna kick him out, be my guest, but a small part of me is hoping that Wellamy could be a thing," Octavia finally tumbles somewhat gracefully out of her headstand to sit on the floor. 

"We can still hear you." It's Wells this time, his voice carrying more clearly than Bellamy's did. 

"And it's not going to happen," Bellamy adds. Octavia hops to her feet just to poke her head around the corner to see the guys, and Clarke shifts just enough to see around her. The boys are still glued to the screen, their hands not even slowing. 

"Frat bros helping bros, Bell," she says, "hate to see my two favorite boys end up alone, platonically playing games together for the rest of their lives." 

"So thoughtful, O," Wells says, "I'll miss that next semester." 

"Sike," Bellamy says. 

"The 1990s called and they want their slang back," Octavia says. 

"Word," Wells agrees, and Clarke smiles at them all, just for a few seconds, because this is exactly what she needed. She needed to come home to the people who make her smile, to her two roommates and the freeloader whose ass has probably left a semi-permanent indentation in her living room couch. Even with Wells's casual reminder that he'll be leaving his basement bedroom for a bunk bed in his and Bellamy's fraternity house next semester, Clarke feels a million times better about this so far unproductive Tuesday.

A few minutes of normalcy, and Clarke is as ready for that chem report as she'll ever be. Octavia drifts easily back into her room, and Clarke does the same, shutting her door like she does when she needs absolute concentration. She drags her backpack to the floor beside her small desk and whips out her laptop and class notes. She puts her phone on silent, picks out some quiet study tunes, cracks her knuckles, and gets to work. 

It requires more than three hours of Clarke's strictest focus, but she finishes her report. The sun has long since crept away, and the relative darkness of her one last remaining light bulb only exhausts her further. She leans back in her desk chair feeling as though she's survived something trying and traumatic, and she honestly has to question why she ever thought a chemistry major was good idea. Still, the report from hell is finished, hopefully to her TA's ridiculously high standard, and with hours left to spare. She spell checks, gives it a once over for conciseness, prints, and then slides it into the cover of her textbook to keep it from wrinkling. 

When she finally checks her phone, she has a handful of texts from a classmate, Raven, all ranging from lightheartedly complaining about their report to requesting a mercy killing in lieu of having to turn it in. There are also at least ten crying emojis and a few more in varying degrees of pouty face scattered throughout for good measure. Clarke promises to grab lunch with Raven after tomorrow's class so they can commiserate even though Clarke is pretty positive that Raven will be handing in a near perfect report, as per usual. They're barely 4 weeks into the fall semester, but Clarke has had at least one class per semester with Raven for the last two years, and the other girl is almost always top of the class. 

Clarke doesn't expect this semester to be any different. In fact, she's banking on it. Raven is prime tutor material, and she's always happy to work with Clarke before big tests like the one they took last week. They've got a good thing going, Clarke and Raven. Raven keeps Clarke motivated in class and Clarke is Raven's sympathetic ear whenever sharing a house with boys is driving Raven crazy. Even though Clarke hasn't known Raven as long as she's known Wells or the Blake siblings, she likes that they're slowly bridging the gap from classmates to friends. 

She likes that Raven has all these anecdotes about her two pothead roommates, and the one who's constantly stripping wires and then asking Raven to fix them for him. She lives vicariously through Raven's stories about her perfect, live-in boyfriend who, according to Raven, is the sweetest guy ever to walk the earth. Even though Clarke never remembers their names and Raven usually refers to them by their misdeeds, Clarke feels almost like she knows them. It's a strange and wonderful thing. 

With the toughest part of her schoolwork out of the way, Clarke finally allows her afternoon to cloud the forefront of her mind. Thick framed glasses. Brown curls. Soft-looking sweater. Green eyes. With enough distance, the embarrassment barely matters, and Clarke has nothing to lose, and no pride to protect, by avoiding her own drawing. She gets up to stretch, grabs her sketchbook, and settles onto the edge of her bed. She takes a deep breath and opens to only page that matters.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa's POV, later that day. One of Clarke's friends is developing a common interest with Lexa.

Lincoln never does explain the "Lexa Effect". It drives Lexa kind of crazy, that something might be named for her, but still completely elude her own understanding. Still, she's grateful for the quality time, and for the continuation of their longtime quest to have try out every coffee shop in town. Even more, she's grateful not to see blonde hair in the distance anymore, so she can finally give Lincoln her full attention.

The time passes too quickly between Lincoln describing his not-quite-girlfriend and Lexa detailing the ins and outs of her unglamorous life as an English and Political Science double major. They give each other the briefest of updates on their respective families, even though Lexa knows her parents have called Lincoln almost as often as his mother has because they adore him so much. They don't even get to talk about Anya or her flavor of the moment hookup before Lexa has to cut their coffee date short. 

It's almost half past five, and if she leaves now it'll take her almost fifteen minutes to get to her on-campus apartment and grab her and Anya's gym bags, plus five more minutes to get to the practice field where Anya should be heading straight from class. That'll leave just enough time for them to change and start their warm-up. 

Lincoln understands, he always does, and they don't have to make concrete plans to see each other next. One of the perks of being best friends for so long is that Lexa knows she can expect Lincoln to pop up somewhere, whether it's on one of the morning runs she takes with Anya or at her parents' kitchen table during Sunday brunch. Lincoln waves her off as she slips out the door, and she's in enough of a hurry that she doesn't even think of the girl who crashed into it less than an hour ago. 

 

When Lexa gets to Byrne fields, collectively recognized as the worst of all the sporting fields owned by Polaris University because of an unchecked vole infestation and about a million small holes in the ground, Anya is just unlocking the gate. Behind her, a line of maybe fifteen girls in athletic gear are chattering to each other, but most of them pause long enough to acknowledge Lexa. As the padlock on the gate clicks open, Anya leads the rest of the girls in.

"All right, ladies, you've got," Anya dramatically looks at her phone, "seven minutes to boot up, pee, and finish your conversations. If any of that isn't done in seven, you'll owe the team one lap for every thirty seconds you waste. Got it?" A few of the younger girls nod seriously, dropping the bags onto the grass and pulling their cleats out nervously. The older girls mostly roll their eyes, but every single one of them starts getting ready. They know Anya isn't kidding. 

"And don't forget your mouth guards," Lexa adds, dropping her and Anya's bags. The two of them almost always end up changing on field, along with a handful of the other girls who come from class. Lexa's already pulling canvas shorts on over thigh-length spandex when a girl with black hair speaks up. She's already vaguely sweaty in her cutoff t-shirt and yoga pants, and Lexa wonders if she ran here. 

"Mouth guards," she asks, and thankfully so, because who knows how many of the five or six new girls were too intimidated to ask. Lexa sees some of them watching her and Anya in rapt attention, waiting for their response.

"You don't wanna lose all those pretty teeth, do you, new girl?" Anya looks up at the girl as she double knots her cleats and she smirks. "This is rugby, not ballet." 

Lexa gives the new girls a rundown of where to buy mouth guards and the right cleats if they intend to stick around for the rest of the season. By the time Anya explains to all the girls that rugby is a full contact, eighty minute long game, some of the new girls look wary, but not the girl with the black hair. That one, Lexa thinks, is here to stay. Lexa is even more sure of it when Gustus, the head coach, shows up and immediately asks Anya what time it is. It's two minutes past six and Anya doesn't hesitate to lead the team in a brisk four lap run to make up for their lost time; the black haired girl keeps pace with Lexa and Anya the entire time, and she doesn't even bat an eyelash when Anya's route proves that one lap means a running around the entirety of Byrne fields, and not just the field they're practicing on. 

Gustus pushes them hard, mostly refusing to exclude the new girls from his different drills, and by the end of the night, Lexa has learned that the black haired girl's name is Octavia, that the team will call her Blake since it's shorter, and that she's the most promising new player so far. 

After Gustus dismisses the team, girls start trickling away, back to the reality of papers and tests, and Lexa finds herself alone with Anya, Gustus, and Octavia. As Lexa and Gustus talk about how the practice went, the newer girl is asking a million questions to Anya's back as she locks the gate. Lexa can tell that Anya's uncharacteristically impressed by her performance and enthusiasm. She even gives the girl her cellphone number so she can answer her questions as they come. When Octavia is satisfied, the other three watch her hop onto a worn-looking red and black motorbike that she must've parked before Lexa arrived. The engine roars to life and she disappears under her helmet and a cloud of exhaust. 

"You girls want a ride home," Gustus asks, his keys in hand. 

"No thanks, Gus," Anya answers for them both, "according to a text from Lincoln, I should be grilling _this one_ about a certain cute girl in a certain coffee shop." Anya hip-checks Lexa when she starts getting flushed. 

"Texas must have messed with his head," Lexa says avoiding both their eyes and hitching her gym bag higher on her shoulder, "there is no girl." 

"I see," Gustus says through a big smile at Lexa before he looks to Anya, "can't get the good dirt out of her with her old man around, eh?" 

Although Lexa is undeniably proud to have Gustus as her dad, she refuses to call him anything other than "Coach" on the rugby pitch. She's honestly lost track of which players even know he's her dad. Even though it's unlikely, considering Lexa's one of the fastest and most experienced players on the team, she sometimes worries her teammates might think she hasn't earned her position. Few things motivate her more than wanting to prove her imaginary naysayers wrong. 

"You know how she is," Anya teases, wrapping her arm around Lexa's shoulders and maneuvering to keep her hold even as Lexa tries to wriggle away, "all conceal, don't feel-y." 

"She gets it from her mother," Gustus says, looking at her affectionately, "and they're both bigger softies than they care to admit." 

"You're going to give me a cavity, Dad," Lexa says, before sort of shimmying away from Anya, "and we really should be going if we're going to make it to that _thing_ , right Anya?"

Lexa is a horrible liar, and even if she weren't, Gustus knows every one of her tells, but he lets her slide. Even as Anya blatantly admits that there is no _thing_. Gustus just laughs and tells them to get home safely. Later, Lexa bets he'll tell her mother all about this little exchange, maybe her brother too, even if there's literally nothing to tell. It's not like she'll ever see that blonde girl again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke's POV. Clarke is having a difficult day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For now the story is crawling forward in time, but soon we'll be covering more ground.

Clarke is having a nightmare. It’s an oldie, but a baddie. Every time, Clarke dreams that she's younger, maybe thirteen or fourteen, and she's walking alongside her parents on a winding road in the summertime. Her mother is speaking unintelligibly on one side of her, but Clarke never realizes she can't understand the words until she wakes up. In the dream, her father is smiling easily on the other side. Every once in a while, he casually slides his foot in front of hers, tripping Clarke, but he always puts out a hand just before she can fall forward. Every time, they all laugh as though it's the first time he's ever done it. In the beginning, it always feels like a good dream. And then it changes. 

At some point, Clarke's mother stops talking. The jumble of words that Clarke can never understand just stops, and Clarke makes the mistake of turning to look at her. When she does, she notices that she's crying. Her face barely changes, aside from the stream of tears dampening her sunny smile, but Clarke's sure something must be horribly wrong. And when Clarke finally turns back to her father, for an explanation or a reaction or _something_ , she realizes that he's not beside her. 

He's a few paces ahead, his back to Clarke and her mother, and when Clarke tries to call out for him, he only speeds up. Within seconds, her father is even further away, so Clarke starts to run after him. She pulls her mother along by the arm and tries to chase him, but her mom's feet drag like an anchor on the ocean floor. Pulling her along is an almost insurmountable task for Clarke, and she knows she can't keep pulling and chasing without tearing herself in two. Eventually, she has to let go of her mom to chase her dad, but it's too late. No matter how hard she runs, Clarke doesn't even get close. Her father keeps shrinking into the horizon. Her body feels like it's sprinting, but seems to be uselessly treading on dirt and gravel until he's gone completely, and she has to force herself to stop. When Clarke collapses to the ground, her mother is somehow still just behind her, crying silently, that easy smile plastered on her face, refusing to move. And in her dream, Clarke feels helpless. 

When Clarke finally wakes, she shoots upright in her bed, a thin layer of cold sweat covering her face and shoulders. It takes her a minute to remember where she is, to remember that she's safe. Light from the rising sun filters in through the window beside her bed, and she has an hour before her series of alarms start going off to wake her for class, and another hour after that before she absolutely has to leave home, but she can't go back to sleep. 

Clarke kills some time double checking yesterday's haphazardly written to-do list in her binder. Chemistry report? Done. Assigned book problems for Calculus? Done. Psychology reading? Done. Novel started for English? Twelve and a half pages plus a thorough Sparknotes guide pretty much counts. Laundry? Clarke looks to the pile of clothes on her floor, grimaces, bumps laundry to a different list on a different day, and meanders out into the kitchen. 

She's brewing a pot of coffee, which really means pressing three buttons and staring down the stream of hot, tasteless Folgers when she hears the front door open and close. Yet again, Octavia is in athletic gear, this time a neon tank top and running shorts. She seems uncharacteristically startled by Clarke. 

"Why are you up," Octavia asks, "you hate waking up early." 

"I don't _hate_ waking up early," Clarke says, evenly meeting Octavia's incredulous look as she snakes a coffee cup under the stream. A few drops spill, dribbling from the rim of the cup to counter, and Clarke burns herself holding the mug by its base instead of the handle, "okay, I really hate waking up early, but I had school stuff to work on." 

It's not that Clarke wants to lie to Octavia, but she knows that if Octavia finds out about her nightmare, then the other girl will make it into a big deal, and that's the last thing that Clarke wants right now. Last time Clarke was having nightmares, well, _this nightmare_ on a regular basis, Octavia and Wells almost smothered her with their concern. She could've drowned herself in the number of cups of tea they brought her. Bellamy wouldn't even harass her when she chose sappy rom-coms during the roomie movie nights he secretly loved to crash. One of them, probably Wells, also told her mother, who failed at her attempt to _nonchalantly_ check in on Clarke more often, and ended up calling her every single day, even when she was on duty at the hospital. 

"School stuff? Gross," Octavia says, mid-stretch, "and here I thought you were finally trying to join me for a morning workout." 

"Sounds about as fun as waking up at the ass crack of dawn." Clarke settles into a seat at the table and takes a sip of her too-hot coffee. 

"You'd be surprised. Especially since, as of today, I'm running with some of the hottest girls I've ever met." 

"Not the straightest thing you've ever said, O," Clarke says, "but I _am_ intrigued." 

"I'm confident enough in my sexuality to appreciate hotness when I see it, Clarke, and they are absolute babes" Octavia says. She relaxes out of her stretch and leans coolly against the wall with her arms crossed. "Now ask me where I met them." 

"Well?" Clarke raises her eyebrows expectantly at the other girl. 

"You are looking at the newest member of the Polaris University women's rugby team." 

"When did this happen?" 

"Last night. When you were all cooped up in your room doing God knows what, I was going to my first rugby practice." 

"And that's where you met your new running buddies?" 

"Yup," Octavia says, "Anya and Lexa pretty much run the team. I mentioned that I liked jogging and they invited me along. They go everyday." 

Octavia told Clarke all of this with her back still against the wall while she picked at her nails, but Clarke knew she was excited. Octavia was constantly looking for a challenge, and from the looks of it, she'd found her newest one. 

"And they can keep up with you," Clarke asks. 

"Honestly, they could probably run circles around me, Clarkey," and for some reason Clarke will never understand, Octavia's thrilled about that, "they're also pretty cool, Lexa and Anya. I'll bet you'd really like them. _Especially Lexa_." 

Clarke narrows her eyes at Octavia and sips her coffee. 

"Picture it: dark hair, tight abs, the speed of a baby cheetah." 

Clarke's eyes narrow even further. 

"Well, maybe not that last thing, but the other stuff, Clarke. She's totally your type." 

"I don't have a type." 

"On opposite day, maybe." 

"How do you even know she likes girls?" Clarke wouldn't expect Octavia to lead her astray, but then she remembers the girl she saw yesterday—the one who definitely has dark hair, even though the jury is still out on whether or not she was hiding tight abs under that sweater—and the disappointment she felt at seeing that girl swept into the arms of the guy with tree trunks for arms. Clarke really wants to avoid reliving that disappointment. 

"I guess we'll never know until you let me introduce you." Octavia shrugs her shoulders and starts backing out of the kitchen, "I may not know her well yet, but trust me, Clarkey, you're going to want to." 

 

It takes what seems like forever for Clarke to shake the dark cloud of her nightmare. Between her chat with Octavia, the faint potential of meeting this Lexa girl, and Wells's off-key shower singing just before she walked out the door, Clarke thinks she's feeling better as she walks into her Chemistry lab. 

Raven beats her there, and she secures their spot side-by-side at the lab table nearest the whiteboard. Other students trickle in, waiting for their TA to arrive, one minute late, like she always does. There's a quiet consensus among every student who's ever met her, or at least the sixteen in Clarke's class, that their TA, Ontari, is a grade A bitch. She's mean-spirited, she has almost impossible standards, and she made a sophomore cry on syllabus day. All in all, she's much worse than the fairly stern professor who lectures to a group of three hundred twice a week, and that professor has already assigned some of the most grueling work Clarke's faced in three long years of college. 

The class barely holds in a collective groan when Ontari strides in to the room. Her arrival is kind of like Christmas, but the kind of Christmas that connects estranged, unpredictable relatives and results in fisticuffs, tears, and alcohol poisoning. She pulls a stack of graded tests out of her bag, drops into her chair and kicks her feet up on the desk. One by one, she calls the students to get their tests. And with each test picked up, Ontari adds some snide comment. Raven gets, "not bad, but not great," even with the only A-minus in class, which is the best grade in their lab group. Clarke gets "what a stereotype, a future doctor with illegible handwriting," and a C-minus, which is her lowest test grade to date. Like always, Clarke and Raven peek at each other's grades, and Clarke hates the sympathetic look Raven gives her when she sees the bleeding red criticism left by Ontari's favorite pen. Ontari gleefully reminds all students with questions about their grades that she has taken off points for spelling, incorrectly placed subscripts, improper citations and formatting, and also handwriting. 

It's bullshit, Clarke thinks, maybe not the subscripts thing, but the rest of it is bullshit. Clarke is pissed, but she's also a fairly bad speller, and knows she has virtually no wiggle room to fix this. Ontari's torture intensifies when she calls for the lab reports, and Clarke prays, she literally silently invokes every god she doesn't believe in, that her spellchecker is more effective on this report than her brain was on the test. Even better, when Clarke's tugging her report from its "safe place" in the cover of her book, she hears a rip. The front page of her formerly stapled report is lightly crinkled in her left hand, and the rest of it is still trapped in the binding. 

"Shit," Clarke mumbles, and Raven gives her that look again, before fishing a surprisingly large stapler from her backpack and offering it up. 

"Relax, Griffin-dor, I know I'm hot and distracting, but there's no need to Hulk out over me." She winks. 

The luckiest part of Clarke's day is when Ontari dismisses them all before she notices the industrial sized staple in Clarke's report. 

 

Somehow, Clarke's day goes from bad to progressively worse. When she's supposed to be treating Raven to lunch, Clarke's debit card, the one linked to the account she started herself, gets declined. She tries it twice, and then resigns herself to using the credit card her mother gave her, because it's slightly less embarrassing to have to pay her mother back for the sake of her own pride than to allow Raven to pay, also at the expense of her own pride. And after all the trouble Clarke goes through for her sandwich and chips, she realizes the sandwich she picked is covered in pickles, and even after she picks them all off, the juice is soaked into slightly soggy bread. 

Clarke smiles when Raven demolishes her own sandwich, and she laughs at Raven's crude jokes, but her heart isn't in it. Clarke feels shitty. She wants to slam dunk her nasty, pickle-juicey sandwich into a trash can. She wants to storm out of this stupid café and slam the door, just so everyone else understands exactly how bad of a day she's having. She wants to scrub her brain clean of nightmares and test scores and put downs and the account she's apparently overdrawn. More than anything, Clarke wants to cry. She wants to be able to drive herself home, to launch herself into her dad's arms, and to let him say all the best things, or even nothing at all, while she sobs into his shoulder. 

But she can't do any of it. Clarke can't rage or cry because there are social norms to respect, and the improbability of surviving a brain scrubbing, and the futility of crying over things she can't change, and bills she can't retroactively pay, and because her dad is dead. So Clarke smiles, and she laughs at the right places, and she swallows down the lump forming in her throat.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa's POV. Wednesday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day, I really will add chapter titles and halfway decent summaries. Today is not that day.

Lexa's last morning class gets out twenty minutes late, but she doesn't mind in the slightest. She spends the short walk from the lecture hall to her apartment still surprisingly immersed in the debate they'd stayed late to continue. She was two chapters ahead of the syllabus, which, in most other classes, usually meant having to hold back a tidal wave of thoughts, but in her class of mostly juniors and seniors, Lexa was pleasantly surprised to have six or seven other people prepared to discuss the merits of a sixteenth century French philosopher's take on the role of the human body in determining identity. She hadn't been completely sold on the course when registering late last spring, but Lexa has really enjoyed the first few weeks. So much so that she usually spent a good twenty minutes of the two hour break between her morning classes and her afternoon editing appointments trying to goad Anya into discussing it further, or at least not leaving the room in a huff every time Lexa tried to rehash the class debate of the day. She expects nothing different from this Wednesday.

Lexa walks into her apartment to a familiar sight: Lincoln and Anya hanging out in the living room. It's been months since they've all been in a room together, but it almost feels like no time has passed at all. And then Lexa notices that Lincoln's hands are clasped over his head and he's slouched down into his seat on the couch, which he only does when he's upset, and Anya is sitting right beside him on the couch looking more concerned than Lexa's seen her in a while. When they notice her at the door, Anya looks so relieved that Lexa worries something horrible has happened.

“What’s going on,” Lexa asks, dropping her backpack to sit on the arm of the sofa nearest to Lincoln.

“Do you want to tell her, or should I,” Anya asks Lincoln, who isn’t looking either of them in the eye.

“Be my guest,” he says, and his words are far more clipped than Lexa is used to hearing them, and she can’t imagine what could’ve shaken the good mood her friend was in yesterday.

“Texas Barbie stomped Linc’s heart into a million pieces,” Anya says, “and she did it over text.”

“Oh, Lincoln,” Lexa starts, putting a hand on his arm, “I’m so sorry.”

“And she’s back with her ex. Made it Facebook official less than an hour after telling me.” When Lincoln finally looks at her, he seems more tired than sad, and Lexa feels twice as guilty for not giving him her full attention while he tried to tell her all about this girl yesterday. Sure, the girl turned out to be a disappointment, but neither of them knew that yesterday. Less than twenty-four hours ago, he was so excited about her, even if he didn’t say it in as many words, and now all that excitement has been drained right out of him.

“This other guy’s profile picture is a gun, Lexa,” Anya says, rolling her eyes, “not him holding a gun, but a picture of a fucking gun.” Naturally, Anya had Facebook stalked the guy already. “And he probably weighs a buck twenty-five soaking wet. He can probably barely lift the damn thing with his Betty Spaghetti arms.”

She nudges Lincoln’s shoulder with hers, obviously trying to get him to laugh, but he only looks miserably at her.

“Hey,” Lexa says, tugging Lincoln’s hands from the top of his head, “you know that girl’s an idiot, right? Any girl would have to be an idiot not to pick you.”

“Ditto,” he says, and Lexa tries not to dwell on the twinge of sadness she feels at being reminded of the girl who didn’t pick her. She slides off the armrest onto the couch and wraps her arm around Lincoln’s bicep. The three of them sit on the couch without saying anything for a few minutes, and Lexa smiles to herself when she sees Anya rest her head on Lincoln’s shoulder. Anya doesn’t have much of a capacity for sweetness, but she can summon it when her best friends need it, even if only for a few minutes. 

“Okay, moment over,” Anya says lifting her head and looking at them both, “I refuse to let you two mope over girls who don’t deserve you. Lincoln, if Texas Barbie wants to live and die in backwards ass Houston with a guy who probably has a rebel flag belt buckle, let her. I know the last semester was probably intense, what with being swathed in nothing but humidity, kid snot, and her perfume, but you’re home now. You have us and Nyko to keep you company, and a campus full of eligible ladies who are probably dying to be swept off their feet by a guy like you. It’s time to start sweeping.”

This was Anya’s specialty. Not the empathy or compassion, not coddling Lincoln and Lexa when they felt sad, but snapping them out of it. What she lacked in warmth she more than made up for in honesty.

“And you,” Anya started, leaning forward so she could look directly at Lexa, “Costia dumped your ass months ago. Months, Lexa. I know it hurt. I tried to be gentle. I even tried to give you time. But now you just need a kick in the ass.”

Lexa looks at Lincoln, unsurprised, but somewhat incredulous, and he shrugs guiltily, apparently in agreement with Anya. Lexa regrets sliding into the spot next to him. Even when she drops her light hold on his bicep, she feels trapped.

“What’s it been, Lex? Six months? Eight?” Lincoln asks as gently as he can, but Lexa still feels her cheeks burning when she answers.

“Nine. If you must know, we broke up nine months ago.”

“Christ, Lexa, that’s like an entire pregnancy. Someone has gone through an entire cycle of life, and you haven’t even dated anyone since.”

“It’s really not a big deal, Anya,” Lexa says. After hurricane Costia blew through her life, Lexa felt shaken. She would never tell anyone, not even Lincoln and Anya, but she had always looked at her parents, at the love they so obviously had for each other, and doubted whether she was even capable of feeling something like that. But Costia had put that doubt to rest, and so effortlessly that Lexa felt silly for doubting it at all. Loving Costia came naturally to Lexa, like breathing.

For three years, Lexa loved Costia the same way she breathed, ceaselessly and without ever having to think about it. Lexa finally learned she was capable of love, and then Costia made her wish she wasn’t. Lexa spent months wishing she could unlearn it all. Months trying to ignore the ache of not being able to love someone she so desperately wanted to love. Months of trying to suppress something that felt as easy and necessary as breathing. If the pain she felt after Costia was love, then Lexa doesn’t want it.

“Look, Lex, I’m not saying you have to find anyone permanent, or even anyone special. You don’t need to look for Mrs. Right. But if you’re saving yourself for Costia, it’s time to stop.”

“I’m not saving myself for anyone, Anya, especially not Costia.”

“Good, then the three of us, plus Nyko, are going out this weekend. You and Lincoln need to remember what it feels like to mingle with eligible ladies. Naturally, Nyko and I will be your wingmen.”

“And your flavor of the month is okay with this,” Lincoln asks.

“I don’t need permission to live my life, Linc. Unlike the two of you, I’m pretty great at the whole sex without dating thing.”

“I guess it’s useless to argue then?”

“Yup,” Anya says, “we’re going. Maybe, if you’re lucky, we’ll run into that blonde you wouldn’t tell me about.”  
Lexa punches Lincoln half-heartedly on the arm when he snickers.

“Why are you hitting me,” he asks, rubbing his bicep, “this is all Anya’s doing.”

“Yeah, but Anya didn’t plant ideas about random blondes in her own head.”

“It doesn’t have to be the blonde, Lexa,” Anya says, “as long as you get back in the saddle this weekend, we’ll all be better for it.”

Lexa definitely has her reservations, but she doesn’t argue. Anya may be a commitment-phobe, but her fleeting arrangements have been far easier on her heart than Lexa’s best attempt at a forever. Lexa doesn’t want love anymore, but she isn’t opposed to a little lust.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke's day gets a little worse before it gets better. There's some sleuthing. Worlds are starting to collide very slowly, but definitely.

Despite her best efforts, Clarke’s mother is not making her day any easier. Clarke leans heavily against the side of her bed from her spot on the floor, trying her best not to sigh into the phone. As she and Raven left the café, Clarke had sent out a quick text to let her mom, Abby, know that she’d used her emergency credit card, the one connected to Abby’s account, but she would definitely be paying it off as soon as her paycheck deposited. Clarke wishes she would’ve held off on that text until after she’d paid it off. She and Raven barely made it in the door of her house, Raven having invited herself over when Clarke mentioned Octavia’s motorbike, before Abby was calling her.

“Clarke, sweetheart, stop worrying about it,” Abby says for at least the third time, “it’s fine.”

“I’m not worrying, Mom, but I’m paying you back as soon as I can.”

“It’s just lunch, Clarke. I can take care of your lunch for one day.”

“It isn’t just _my_ lunch. It was my turn to treat a friend.”

“Then I’m glad I could treat you both to lunch,” Clarke hears something like frustration bleeding into her mother’s voice, probably because they’ve had some variation of this conversation a handful of times since Clarke had started college.

“But you don’t have to, Mom. I have a job and I’m very capable of taking care of myself.”

“I’m not saying you aren’t. You just-”

“I’m not a kid. I don’t need you picking up after me anymore.”

“I know that, Clarke. But I want-”

“Then just give me a day. My paycheck will deposit, and then I’ll handle it.”

Clarke feels silly, like she knows she’s being unnecessarily defensive, but she doesn’t know how to stop herself. Her mind is on an exhausting loop, flitting from red ink to pickle juice to winding roads, and all she can see are the worst parts of her day. Clarke hates that she probably had to study twice as long as Raven only to receive a sub-par grade on their test, and she feels guilty for resenting her friend, whose only crime is having a top-notch brain and a knack for pretty much anything in the STEM fields. She’s dreading the comments she’s going to get on the gigantic staple in her ripped lab report, and she’s dreading the moment when she finally has to read the ones already bleeding on her test. She feels stupid for having over drafted her bank account, and worse, somehow, that her mother is trying to fix it for her.

Her mother sighs, almost too gently for Clarke to pick up on it, and then quietly says, “Okay,” like she’s too worn out to say anything else. And again, Clarke is hit with a wave of guilt, this time for taking out her bad day on her mother.

“Thanks, Mom,” she says, but she wants to apologize.

“Listen, sweetheart, I should really be getting back to work,” and she should, Clarke knows, because she’s a brilliant surgeon who has far more important things to do than to argue with her daughter over who should pay off a fifteen-dollar credit card charge, “but why don’t we get together in the next few days or so? We can do dinner at the house and catch up?”

“Sounds good, Mom. I’ll check my schedule.”

“All right, Clarke, I’ll see you soon,” Abby says, and then she lets Clarke go. Clarke hangs up her phone and lets it drop on to the carpet with a thud. She lets herself slowly slide from her position against the bed down to the floor, the cheap carpet irritating the patch of skin that her shirt rides up to reveal. She squeezes her eyes shut and takes a deep breath. Clarke is tired and she’s sad, but the last thing she wants is to bring other people down, too.

Later, when Raven’s gone home and Octavia’s at her night class and Wells is being absorbed into the TV screen, Clarke will cry. She’ll have a good cry, and, maybe, she’ll look at some old pictures of her dad, and she’ll feel better.

In the meantime, Clarke takes one more deep breath before picking herself up off the floor and leaving her room, completely determined to make it through the next few hours without cracking. She wants to splash cool water on her face, but the bathroom door is closed, and she can hear Wells singing to himself. No running water, no accompanying music, just Wells and some upbeat song she recognizes, but can’t quite place. Naturally, Clarke opens the door without knocking.

“You know, sometimes when you open the door without knocking it almost seems like you have no respect for personal boundaries,” Wells says, just barely flinching when he sees Clarke’s face over his shoulder in the mirror. It isn’t the first time one of his roommate has barged in on him, and it almost definitely won’t be the last.

“Not like I’m interrupting anything other than your little concert,” Clarke starts, before abruptly realizing that maybe she _is_ interrupting something; Wells is grooming far more than usual. The small countertop around the sink is abnormally crowded by Wells’s things: aftershave, straight razor, hairbrush, mouthwash, and a semi-expensive cologne she and Octavia had gotten him for his birthday. And then there’s the open sky blue pouch that lay flat in front of him. The sky blue pouch actually belongs to Clarke, who has to know, “Why are you using my brow kit?”

Wells glances guiltily at Clarke’s reflection and shrugs, “boundary issues?”

“In our lifetime of friendship, I have never seen you groom your eyebrows.” Clarke leans against the door frame with her arms crossed. 

“First time for everything, I guess,” he says, arching one brow in the mirror, then the other. He licks his pointer finger and smooths it along each brow carefully.

“Any particular reason why you’re singing to yourself and primping in front of the mirror?”

“Nope,” he says, sliding Clarke’s tweezers and brow brush back into their rightful spots in the pouch. He works his hairbrush through close-cropped hair and lets the silence hang while Clarke narrows her eyes at him. Without even raising his eyes to meet hers in the mirror, Wells says, “and don’t look at me like that.”

“Who are you trying to impress?”

“Nobody,” he maintains, but the thick scent of aftershave and cologne says otherwise.

“Nobody, or none of my business?”

“You pick,” he says, “I don’t only dress to impress other people.” 

Wells chooses that moment to turn around, easily sliding past Clarke in the doorway. Clarke narrows her eyes even further.

“Sure,” she says, taking his place in front of the mirror. She watches his reflection disappear down the hall for a couple seconds, and instead of splashing water on her face like she’d planned to, she comes up with an even better way to turn her crappy day around.

Clarke doesn’t tease Wells like she wants to when he emerges from his room in a nice looking blue and grey striped button down shirt. She sits nonchalantly in the kitchen, biting into an apple and pretending not to lean out of her chair to watch him carefully select the sneakers that match his outfit best from the pile next to the door. Even if he won’t say it, Clarke is absolutely certain that Wells must have a date. And if not a date, then something he hopes will lead to a date. Her friend definitely cares about his appearance, but never this much.

When he finally leaves the house, his backpack slung coolly on one shoulder, Clarke springs into action. She whips out the calendar on her phone, the one with the syncing feature that she, Octavia, and Wells all have. She checks the date, sifts through their respective events and reminders, but finds nothing for Wells on Wednesday afternoon. She has to take extreme measures, she decides, so she lets herself into Wells’s immaculate room to peek at the gigantic calendar he keeps on the back of his door. There it is, an appointment reminder: _editing conference 3pm @ city union w/ L. Woods_. And, just like every time he’s nervous, he’s running almost thirty minutes ahead of schedule. Perfect.

Clarke runs back up the stairs two at a time, genuinely excited for the first time all day. She trades her blue jeans for black, and slips on a heather gray Polaris crewneck and a beanie. This mission will require the utmost stealth, and Clarke doesn’t want her blonde hair or colorful sweater giving her away. As much as she doesn’t want to interrupt Octavia and Raven’s blossoming bromance, which has been a long time coming, Clarke pokes her head out the front door to get their attention.

Octavia is cross-legged on the ground beside her motorbike using some tool that Clarke wouldn’t be able to pick out of a line-up, and Raven is hunched over next to her, apparently explaining whatever repair or upgrade they’ve been working on for the last hour or so. Clarke is weirdly proud that Raven, who spends a few days a week being paid to work on cars at a body shop, is still so happy to help Octavia with her bike free of charge. Both girls are smudged with greasy-looking black gunk, and Clarke just knows Raven already had the rag that’s currently dangling from her back pocket on hand. When Clarke calls them, they both seem almost surprised to remember that there’s a world still spinning outside of the driveway.

“You guys up for a mission?”

“A mission,” Raven asks, just as Octavia asks whether it has anything to do with why Wells left looking and smelling like a magazine ad.

“It seems like Wells might have a love interest,” Clarke says, “and I’m dying to know what she looks like.”

“How do you even know where he’s going,” Raven asks, naively assuming that Wells has ever succeeded in keeping something important from Clarke.

“Call it good intel,” Clarke says.

“So you snooped on him?”

“Snooping is a strong word, Raven, but more or less accurate.”

“Count me in,” Octavia says, “this girl must be perfect if she’s got him using his good cologne.” Then she looks to Raven and adds, “He rations that stuff like it’s moonshine during prohibition.”

“No way am I missing out, then,” Raven says. It takes less than ten minutes for Octavia and Raven to towel motor oil off their skin and change into similarly stealthy clothes from Octavia’s closet, and then they’re off. Operation Wells watch is a go.

 

 

The girls locate their target with five minutes to spare. Wells is sitting in one of the high top chairs near the printing center in the union. His backpack is hanging off the back of his chair and his laptop is open before him. Every few seconds, they see him glance up, obviously trying to spot his mystery girl.

They decide to fan out, each girl using her phone to send updates to the others, so that there’s less of a chance of him catching them in the act. Raven gets the best view, claiming a small booth on the other side of the high top bar so she can see if his face—and his companion’s—with a discreet turn of her head since she’s least likely to be recognized. Octavia grabs a spot at a computer in the printing center, where she has to crane her neck a bit, but can see him clearly through the glass doors that separate it from the rest of the union. Clarke has the worst view, choosing a booth in the small food court facing Wells’s back. 

Seeing the girl that he’s meeting will require constant vigilance, but Clarke really doesn’t want to chance Wells spotting her. She checks her phone.

**Octavia (2:55): anything yet?**

**Raven (2:55): Redhead scanning crowd @ my 2 o clock…**

**Clarke (2:56): ???**

**Raven (2:56): Between me & u, C.**

**Octavia (2:56): nope, shes waving at some1**

**Octavia (2:56): punk rock chick behind raven?**

**Clarke (2:57): No way, o! girl in sundress?? just walked in front door**

**Raven (2:57): Approaching…**

**Octavia (2:57): and another 1 bites dust…**

**Clarke (2:58): Ooh! right beside you, o…blonde in romper leaving print room**

**Raven (2:58): Or blazer girl by pretzel place?**

**Octavia (2:59): damn! looks like theyre meeting each other**

Clarke is scanning the union, eager to spot Wells’s mystery girl, before she sits down and effectively shuts out Clarke’s chance. Her phone buzzes in her hand, but she doesn’t bother checking it. Maybe thirty seconds left until three, and Clarke won’t chance not having her eyes up and ready at the moment of truth.

And then Clarke sees her, or at least she thinks she does, standing just inside the front door, scanning the union like the other girls had. Clarke feels a weird, heavy weight settle over her. Please don’t be _her_ , Clarke thinks. But again, today is not Clarke’s day. The other girl quickly transitions from scanning the union to locking in on and striding toward Wells, who apparently hasn’t spotted her yet. Clarke’s phone is buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, but she can’t peel her eyes away.

The girl, Wells’s mystery girl, is the same one from Meadowlark. No glasses today, but Clarke _knows_. Her brown curls are pulled up into a messy bun atop her head. She’s wearing a green sweater today, the kind with cutouts over the shoulders shoulders, and Clarke isn’t close enough to see for herself, but she bets it brings out the color in the other girl’s eyes. Clarke watches her eagerly as she strides easily across the huge room to sit beside Wells, until all Clarke sees is the back of her sweater and the tan curves of her shoulders.

The same girl who laughed when Clarke crashed into a door, the one with the hulking boyfriend who could probably punch Wells into next week, is the girl Wells was so excited to meet up with. Clarke is not looking forward to breaking the whole boyfriend thing to Wells. Hell, Clarke didn’t even know the girl, and she’d been disappointed to find out. Wells seems to know her, maybe not well enough to know her romantic status, but well enough to want to. He’s going to be crushed. She finally checks her phone.

**Raven (2:59): Red shirt, black skirt??**

**Octavia (2:59): nah**

**Octavia (2:59): wait**

**Octavia (2:59): O**

**Raven (2:59): ??????**

**Octavia (2:59): M**

**Raven (2:59): Brown hair, green top????**

**Octavia (3:00): GGGGG**

**Raven (3:00): CONFIRMATION. BROWN GREEN!!!**

**Octavia (3:00): I know her…**

**Raven (3:00): Griff? U see her???**

**Raven (3:00): Spill, Blake!!!**

**Octavia (3:01): ITS LEXAAA!**

**Octavia (3:01): BADASS RUGBY LEXA**

**Raven (3:01): …rugby?**

**Octavia (3:02): ABORT MISSION**

**Octavia (3:02): Meet outside front. NOW!!!**

Clarke looks up to see Octavia power walking to the front door, and Raven isn’t far behind. But Clarke hesitates to get up. She feels like she’s forgotten something important. Rugby Lexa sounds familiar, but Clarke doesn’t immediately know why. And then it hits her: rugby Lexa is the girl Octavia mentioned this morning when Clarke was burning herself with a hot coffee mug. The girl Octavia wanted to introduce her to.

Yikes, Clarke thinks. Not only is this girl taken, she’s obviously straight. And not only is she straight, but Wells is also borderline in love with her. Now, instead of just dashing Wells’s hopes, Clarke gets to snuff out Octavia’s matchmaking goal, too. And Octavia was right, Clarke thinks, she _does_ want to know her. The fact that she can’t, that she _won’t_ get the chance, has Clarke finally giving up her seat and heading for the front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folks, I'm having a bunch of fun writing this story (however slowly). In seven chapters, we've covered a solid twenty-four hour period, which is...well...a ridiculously small amount of time. But once our protagonists properly meet and our pseudo-important groundwork is laid, we'll stop moving at this glacial pace. Thanks for your patience! 
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments (please and thank you)!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa's POV. Lexa finds herself in a strange situation, we see a bit of the Woods family, and Lexa sees more than she probably wanted to see.

Lexa’s been working for the Polaris University writing center for almost a year. It doesn’t pay well, requires nearly as much reading as any of her classes, and makes her honestly question the merits of the American education system every time she has to work with a college student who can’t quite grasp the most basic of writing conventions. Still, it looks great on a resume and Lexa finds it oddly satisfying. She’s worked with tons of students, reading and revising their work, and helping them feels like giving back to the campus community that has always treated her so well.

Today’s appointment is her eighth with a guy called Wells Jaha, and the second they’ve had this semester. Lexa is used to having certain regulars, students who always prefer to make appointments with her instead of a different writing center editor, but eight meetings in two semesters is unprecedented. Especially considering the small fee attached to each meeting. It’s sort of confusing really, that Wells has set up so many appointments, even though Lexa so rarely finds errors in his work. He’s nice enough, though, and he doesn’t harass her about her love life like Anya does, so Lexa considers today’s meet-up, and the others she has scheduled, a decent enough escape.

She meets Wells in the student union, determinedly shutting out any lingering apprehension about whatever Anya’s planning for the weekend. He’s one of the few people sitting at the high top bar, his blue shirt bright against the muted gray design of the union. He’s staring pretty intently at his laptop as she approaches him. Lexa tries not to grimace at the thick cloud of cologne that engulfs her when she’s within a few feet of him. It smells fine, she supposes objectively, but was applied far too liberally. She has to take slow, careful breaths as she unloads her laptop just to keep herself from feeling lightheaded. Wells is patient as she gathers her materials, but she can feel his eyes on her, and it makes her vaguely uncomfortable. 

“Long time no see,” he says with a big smile. If Lexa knew him better, if they were friends instead of editor and client, she might laugh at the strangeness of him considering two weeks away from an acquaintance a “long time”. Instead, she offers a polite smile and dives right in to the small things she found in his paper.

Lexa is nothing if not professional, it’s a rule she has with all her clients, but she’s noticed a weird shift in her last few meetings with Wells. It’s a shift on his end, not hers. In their last few meetings, she’s noticed him trying to interject things, jokes and anecdotes and compliments, more and more often. It’s somewhat perplexing, and, if she’s being brutally honest, kind of annoyingly counterproductive. Their appointment, which would probably take maybe fifteen minutes if Wells stayed on task, drags on for an extra ten.

“So,” Wells starts as Lexa starts tucking her laptop back into her messenger bag, “any big plans for the rest of the day?”

“A few more appointments, some homework, the usual.”

“Saving the world one paper at a time, huh?” Wells is leaning his elbow heavily against the bar to face Lexa, one hand casually grasping his opposite forearm. He’s smiling a smile that Lexa imagines belongs in a toothpaste ad.

“I guess,” she says, mentally planning her next appointment, which starts not long after she makes an escape from this one.

“It must be tough right? Having your own work to do and having to help other people?”

“I don’t have to help other people; I choose to. It’s actually a pretty enjoyable job.”

“Wow, smart and selfless,” he says, and even though he’s still a respectable distance away, he’s leaning forward slightly. Lexa finds herself leaning slightly away.

“Not really selfless,” she admits, “jobs pay.”

“Ha,” he laughs, and a little too hard, “that’s funny.”

 _Is it_ , Lexa wants to ask, but she just smiles another polite smile.

“So, look, I was thinking of going to this poetry reading this weekend,” Wells says.

“That should be nice.”

“Yeah,” he says awkwardly, “It’s on Saturday night.”

“Didn’t peg you for a poetry fan.”

“I, uh, it’s something new I’m trying,” he seems to trip over his words a bit, and Lexa is surprised by how sheepish he seems. Wells Jaha is a lot of things, but, as far as Lexa knows, lacking in confidence is not one of them.

“I’ve heard good things about them,” Lexa says, unsure of her role in this moment. Is she supposed to make him feel better about liking poetry? Or to tell him about her plans? She really feels like she’s missing something important.

“You should come,” he says, “it seems like something you might like, you know, English major and all. What do you think?”

Wells eyes her sort of expectantly, his hand fiddling with his sleeve, and an icy, creeping feeling starts at the middle of Lexa’s chest, slowly rises to the base of her throat, and then up to the tips of her ears. Dread. Cold, tingling dread overtakes her senses, and Lexa comes to an abrupt realization: Wells Jaha is asking her out. Or at least he’s trying to. Lexa isn’t immediately sure how to get herself out of this one.

If Anya were here, she’d tell Lexa to do something extreme, like pull a conveniently placed rainbow flag and a plaid shirt out of her messenger bag; Lincoln would probably tell her to change the subject altogether; Lexa’s mother would tell her to just be honest. In the interest of keeping things somewhat professional, and also keeping her private life private, Lexa toes the line between honesty and avoidance.

“Sorry, I’m going out with my friends this weekend, but you have fun.”

He looks disappointed for a moment, and Lexa thinks that’ll be the end of it. Then he brightens again.

“You guys hitting up the Dropship?”

“Um, I’m not sure yet, maybe.”

“Sounds like a good time.”

“It should be,” Lexa shrugs.

“I know you’ve got more meetings and stuff, but maybe I’ll see you there,” Wells says, smoothly pushing back his chair and gathering his things.

“At my meeting?” Lexa is genuinely confused, but Wells laughs.

“At the Dropship.”

“Oh,” Lexa says.

“Maybe,” he says, and then he winks, and Lexa misses the less confident Wells, “thanks again, Lexa.”

“No trouble, Wells.”

Wells flashes her one more smile and then walks away with a little pep in his step, and Lexa watches him go, still not entirely sure of how badly she just messed this up. She hopes she’s just misread the situation, that Wells is interested in being her friend, and nothing more. Hope can only carry so far.

Lexa whips her phone out and sinks down into her chair. She opens a group message with Lincoln and Anya, then imagines Anya’s teasing, and thinks better of it. Instead, she texts Lincoln, and then crosses her fingers that he’s working out with Nyko or at class, and not still in a room with their less than sensitive best friend.

**Lexa (3:31): S.O.S. May or may not have just been asked out by a boy whose paper I just edited. Help?**

**Lexa (3:31): And don’t blab to Anya until we figure this out!**

**Lexa (3:32): I have a suspicion that she might give me a hard time**

After she fires off her texts, Lexa grabs her bag and heads to the second floor of the union for her next appointment. She doesn’t have to wait long for Lincoln’s reply.

**Lincoln (3:34): …really?**

**Lincoln (3:34): does he know ur gay?**

**Lexa (3:34): I guess not? It didn’t seem like something to announce at an editing appointment**

**Lincoln (3:35): LMAO! so he just randomly asked u out…on a date...the first time he met u?**

**Lexa (3:35): Not exactly. He sorta scheduled way more meetings than any of my other regulars…so…I think I missed some signs.**

**Lincoln (3:35): how many more???**

**Lexa (3:36): Uhhh…like 8 meetings…on virtually perfectly written papers...**

**Lincoln (3:36): lexa…**

**Lexa (3:36): Unless it was all in my head and he was just being friendly, which is where your expert masculine advice comes in**

**Lincoln (3:36): probs not in ur head, friend**

**Lincoln (3:37): how/what exactly did he ask?**

**Lexa (3:37): He said he was going to some poetry thing that I might enjoy and I should join him. When I told him I was going out with friends that night he said he might run into us**

**Lincoln (3:38): ummm…i know anya told u to get back in the game but idk if this is what she had in mind**

**Lexa (3:38): Ughhhhh**

**Lincoln (3:39): congrats on the new love interest tho…i can 1000% confirm as a masculine expert that he wants to date u**

**Lexa (3:39): I was afraid you say that. Is it too late to back out of Saturday night?**

**Lincoln (3:40): yep, we’re doin this woods…but im sure he will know ur gay by how many ladies r on your arm**

**Lincoln (3:40): and also b/c anya will make sure he knows**

**Lincoln (3:40): btw…anya knows...sorry**

**Lexa (3:40): LINCOLN HUNTER YOU HAD ONE JOB**

**Lincoln (3:41): was walking to the gym w/anya and nyko. she knew i was texting u and threatened me**

**Lincoln (3:41): im a lover not a fighter**

**Lincoln (3:43): ps she says u shoulda waved a rainbow flag and/or made out with nearest girl as soon as he asked**

**Lexa (3:44): My next meeting is about to start. Hate you both.**

**Lincoln (3:44): sorry lex! just don’t let this one fall 4 u!**

 

 

Thankfully, Lexa’s other appointments are uneventful. She walks home from the union in the early evening feeling mentally exhausted. She loves her job, she really does, but after three hours of discussing other people’s work, she’s hardly ready to focus on her own. Lexa wants a long shower, a good dinner, and enough quiet time to find her second wind.

Lexa knows she’s going to get none of those things within two minutes of entering her apartment.

First, before she even has time to drop her bag on the floor, she notices that the shower is running. It might not be a problem, if not for the proven fact that her shower is incapable of running hot for more thirty minutes. After every early morning run, Anya and Lexa are both painfully aware that she who showers first holds a great deal of power, but also the responsibility to limit herself to a reasonable time. And she can’t count on one hand the number of times one of them has failed to uphold that responsibility, and left the other shrieking and covered in goosebumps. Just hearing Anya in the shower means that Lexa will have to wait at least an hour if she doesn’t want to risk an icy surprise. But the running water isn’t the most concerning thing Lexa notices.

The concerning thing is a dull, almost rhythmic thud that seems to be coming from the bathroom. When that thud is accompanied by a high-pitched moan, Lexa groans. She’s standing in the small kitchen, already leaning to look into the sparsely stocked refrigerator, when she hears it. Not that she makes a habit of listening to Anya moan, but she has walked in on her friend’s escapades enough times to be fairly certain that Anya didn’t make that sound.

Lexa sighs and shuts the fridge, ducking into her room to trade her messenger bag for her backpack and to grab all the schoolwork she needs to do. The moaning gets louder, sporadically intercut with a grating series of whines, and Lexa rolls her eyes. She stuffs a t-shirt and a pair of shorts into her bag just in case Anya decides to keep her visitor over past Lexa’s bedtime. The last thing she hears from the bathroom are panicked shrieks and the water being shut off. Lexa smiles to herself as she slips out the front door.

It’s not as though Lexa’s really upset. She and Costia put Anya out of the apartment their fair share of times. Of course, all that stopped nine months ago, whereas Anya’s sex life has thrived enough for the both of them in that time. And usually Anya is more thoughtful, opting to stay out with her conquests instead of bringing them home when Lexa is there. No, Lexa isn’t upset, but she is a somewhat annoyed. And, maybe if she’s honest with herself, the teensiest, tiniest bit envious.

 

The cool wind whips Lexa across the face as she bikes to her parents’ house. The sun is still out, but fading away fast into the horizon. Fall is slowly but surely chasing away the warmth of summer. She’s grateful to have grabbed a jacket—the khaki colored bomber she borrowed from her sister and forgot to return so long ago—or she would probably be miserable right now. She mindlessly follows the same route she always takes, riding leisurely past the edge of campus, past a row of taco shops and burger joints, college bars and oddly placed boutiques, and into one of the quiet neighborhoods that somehow peacefully exists mere blocks from a sprawling university campus. Lexa’s parents live in one of those surprisingly quiet neighborhoods, so it isn’t much longer until she’s biking up their short, wide driveway. She drops her bike onto the neatly trimmed front lawn, just like she always does, and lets herself in the front door.

Immediately, she’s hit with a whiff of _something_ , and her stomach rumbles loudly to remind her she hasn’t had dinner yet. Lexa drops her backpack off next to the door and wanders toward the kitchen. Just before she steps out of the hallway, she hears her dad singing, way off-key, to a song that’s softly playing. It’s something old, some rock song with too much falsetto for her dad’s very limited range. She’s sure he’s _performed_ it a million times for the family, and she rolls her eyes while peeking in to around the corner to watch him do it again.

Her dad is slowly stirring a pot with one hand and holding a slotted spoon like a microphone to his mouth with the other. His head is jerking erratically to the beat, shaking the slightly questionable man-bun he likes to rock when he cooks. Beside him, Lexa’s little brother, Aden, is shaking his narrow hips while he grates cheese into a wooden bowl. When the song gets to the really high parts, Gustus holds his makeshift microphone in front of Aden. They’re so bad, both of them, and Aden’s subtly changing voice keeps cracking, but Lexa watches them for a few long moments, just feeling lucky to have them. And then Gustus and Aden both try to hit the longest, highest note, singing, " _I believe in a thing called looooooove,_ ” and Lexa loses it. She’s clutching at her sides before they even turn around.

“Oh, I see, my third favorite child just appears, out of the blue, to mock the greatest father-son duet of all time,” Gustus says. He turns down the pot on the stove and fixes Lexa with his best fake scowl, which is less of a scowl and more of a general scrunching of his face. Lexa rolls her eyes.

“If that was the greatest father-son duet of all time, then music is in far worse shape than I thought, Dad.”

“Don’t listen, Aden. It’s jealousy, pure jealousy.” Gustus dramatically looks to Aden, who hasn’t stopped grating cheese, then back at Lexa, “Lexa’s the only one who missed out on the musical talent overload.”

“You really threw off our groove, sis,” Aden says, “you’re the reason we can’t have a family band.”

“Sure, _I’m_ the reason.” Lexa hops up onto the countertop opposite Aden, the only counter space that’s free of miscellaneous ingredients and tools, and asks, “where’s Mom?”

“She should be home soon,” Aden says, looking to their dad, “right?”

“Any minute, bud,” Gustus says with a broad smile, “she stuck around late to do some filing at the office.”

It’s downright cheesy how brightly her dad shines when he talks about her mom. Even just mentioning what time she’s coming home. Lexa would probably gag if she wasn’t also ridiculously happy for them. Twenty-seven years, three kids, and one frequently worn man-bun later, and they're still each other’s favorite people.

“What’s for dinner?”

“I don’t know, what’d you bring?”

“Dad.”

“Lexa.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be a grown up or something,” Aden asks, “I thought you guys were supposed to learn to cook.”

“Can Luna cook,” Lexa asks, raising her eyebrows at both of them.

“Fair point,” Aden says with a shrug.

“Besides, I learn best by eating,” Lexa says, “and Anya needs me out of the apartment for a while.”

“Oh,” Gustus starts, “little Onion has a date?”

“Something like that,” Lexa says, staring into the pot, her dad barely suppressing a laugh, “and she’ll kill you if she hears you call her ‘little Onion’.”

“Nah, she’d kill you or Lincoln, but she couldn’t handle me in hand to hand combat, so I’m safe.”

“Ha,” Aden says, somewhat to himself, “little Onion.”

“She’d kill you, too, small fry,” Gustus winks at him, “so don’t let her hear you say it.”

Lexa is eventually tasked with slicing avocado and rinsing herbs to garnish the chili Gustus is making. The three of them work well together in the kitchen, each occupying their own space and trading small talk about their days. Lexa doesn’t bring up Wells Jaha, and she won’t, at least not until her mother is in the room as a buffer to keep her dad and brother from mercilessly teasing her.

By the time her mom walks in the door, dinner is finished, and Gustus has spooned it all gracefully into bowls and arranged it on the place settings Aden and Lexa put out. It’s as aesthetically pleasing as it is delicious—perks of having a chef for a father, Lexa supposes—and her stomach finally stops its grumbling. She waits until the end of dinner—when everyone is full and Aden and Gustus are playing rock, paper, scissors to see whether they’ll be watching baseball or rugby for the next hour—to update her mother on the Wells situation.

After a thorough play-by-play, Lexa’s mother’s reaction is more or less what she’s expecting, _you can’t expect every boy who likes you to just guess that you’re not interested, Lexa, not if you don’t tell them_. What Lexa isn’t expecting is for her mother to make her rewind to the part where she’s going out this weekend, and potentially meeting someone new. Aside from the obligatory safety talk her mom gives her, her mom seems more genuinely excited than Lexa that she’s moving on. It’s a good talk, Lexa thinks, her mother wrist deep in sudsy dish water, giving her good advice and encouraging her to dust her heart off and put it back where it belongs, back where it was before Hurricane Costia displaced it. Lexa’s happy, even if she’s a little lonely, and she’s kind of grateful for Anya’s ill-timed sexcapades. Kind of.

 

 

As much as she loves time with her family, Lexa is able to tear herself away long enough to finish most of her homework. She also checks her phone, which has one text from Lincoln asking about how badly Anya teased her and three from Anya, obviously meant to tease her. There are two more from Anya, one of which warns her to steer clear of the apartment, and the other giving her the green light to come back.

It’s nearly eleven when Lexa is ready to head home. Her parents are already asleep, and Aden should be if he isn’t, so she quietly slips out the front door and hops back onto her bike. The air is chillier than it was, but she kind of likes it. The streets are quiet, and she feels like she has the outside world to herself. Like the night is hers to command.

She gets so caught up in her enjoyment that she doesn’t notice the jagged shards of glass littering the road before her. Her only warning is a small pop and quiet hiss of air, and then her pace slows drastically. Lexa’s front tire deflates within seconds, and she runs her hand along the rubber until she finds a surprisingly large puncture. She’s about halfway between her apartment and her parents’ house, so she decides to walk her bike the rest of the way to her apartment.

Lexa walks her bike back along the row of still lit restaurants and bars feeling less like she has the world to herself. A few people are still filtering in and out of doorways, smoking their cigarettes and milling around. She passes the banh mi shop with the Vietnamese coffee Lincoln loves, and the small parlor where Anya stoically sat through two hours of pain, tears silently streaming down her face, for an elaborate back tattoo. Then, Lexa passes the small coffee shop she and Lincoln visited yesterday on the edge of the block. Meadowlark coffee. She’s still scanning around semi-aimlessly, but something catches her eye.

Just outside of Meadowlark, on the side of the building that shares a small alleyway with a co-op, two people are making out. Lexa doesn’t mean to stare, but she is on the same side of the street as them, and if she isn’t mistaken, Finn the barista is pressing some blonde girl against the wall. Any other day, any other place, any other couple, and Lexa would walk away. In fact, she means to walk away. But then that Finn guy starts kissing the blonde’s neck, and she angles her face out enough that Lexa can see her. The blonde’s eyes are squeezed shut, and her mouth is agape, but Lexa recognizes her. She’d have to be blind not to.

Lexa’s brain is shouting at her feet to move, and so she does, but not before staring for a few seconds too long at the pair. And the whole rest of the way home, Lexa’s mind stays on that girl. She considers how uncomfortable it must be, being pressed into scratchy, unyielding brick. She wonders if the girl is okay after her run-in with that door, and whether this Finn guy holding her against a wall is helping her to feel any better. Mostly, she dwells on the impossibility of not seeing that face for three years—and she would definitely remember if she’d seen that face before—only to see it two times in as many days. And both times, Lexa thinks, the blonde was with this Finn guy. And yeah, she could hate him, even though there is no logical reason to.

Lexa gets herself home. She chains her bike to its rack and trudges back into her apartment. She lets Anya give her shit about Wells Jaha. She barely reacts when Anya mentions the “Lexa Effect”, and she doesn’t bother trying for an explanation. She texts Lincoln back. And after all her work is finished, when Anya is done teasing her and Lincoln is done apologizing, and also teasing her, Lexa crawls into her bed. She curls into her comforter, closes her eyes, and pictures blonde hair, eyes squeezed tightly shut, and the pretty, pink mouth of the girl she may never know, but at least had the privilege of seeing.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke's POV. Wednesday to Thursday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folks, thanks for leaving comments and kudos! I really do appreciate it.
> 
> First, this chapter has a little bit of angst, but also moves right out of that angst, so read at your own risk as far as that's concerned. Also, not to be a spoiler, but if Finn/Clarke pairing really squicks you out, you're going to want to skim through a small section of this chapter, and maybe a handful of certain subsequent chapters.
> 
> Second, if you notice any typos (especially tense shifts or the wrong homonym [i.e. whose/who's] feel free to let me know). I am flying solo as I write and edit this story, so my bad if any typos "take you out of the story". 
> 
> Lastly, I'll be traveling through Europe for a couple weeks in July, so I'm going to do my very very best to work on this story there, but might not be able to post for a few weeks.
> 
> Happy reading!

The girls find a shady outdoor table under a yellow parasol to pore over the intel they gathered during Operation Wells Watch. Before Raven and Octavia get too far into a discussion about this Lexa girl, Clarke tells them about what she saw at the coffee shop. To say Octavia is surprised would be an understatement. Clarke rolls her eyes at the other girl when she claims that there is _no way_ Lexa is straight. Octavia met the girl less than twenty-four hours ago, but she assures Clarke and Raven that whatever Clarke saw at Meadowlark was a misunderstanding. Octavia claims she's got nearly infallible gaydar, which Clarke thinks may be an exaggeration, and that Lexa set it off, boyfriend or no boyfriend.

Of course, the ambiguity surrounding Lexa’s preferences doesn’t stop Octavia or Raven from giving Clarke the third degree about seeing Lexa yesterday and observing her carefully enough for a crystal clear impression of the other girl’s love life to form in Clarke’s mind.

Luckily, Clarke is spared from the veritable torture that is being grilled by her friends about a potentially, okay, almost definitely straight girl crush when Raven ditches Clarke and Octavia to hang out with Mr. Perfect. In a rare show of mercy, Octavia doesn’t push beyond telling Clarke that “ _just because there may be a goalie doesn’t mean you shouldn’t take your shot_ ”. It’s a very sporty expression, Clarke decides, far sportier than Clarke herself, at least, but the message is clear. Sure, Clarke doubts she’ll ever use it, that she would ever even have a chance with Lexa, but she appreciates the sentiment.

Clarke and Octavia stick around a little longer debating how to handle telling Wells. Octavia telling him alone is out of the question, since he doesn’t always respond to her _particular_ brand of honesty. Clarke and Octavia consider telling him together, but Clarke knows he’ll probably be embarrassed, and that having both his roommates extinguish whatever torch he’s been carrying for Lexa will suck slightly more than having one of them do it. That just leaves Clarke. It’s only right, since Wells is the closest thing to a brother Clarke has. They’ve survived everything from potty-training to puberty to dead parents together. It’ll be a big letdown for Wells, just like it was for Clarke, but Clarke is going to make sure they survive this, too.

 

Wells is shoveling macaroni and cheese into his mouth when Clarke gets home. He’s in a kitchen chair, his back to the door, wearing athletic shorts and a long-sleeved t-shirt. He’s bobbing his head slightly, like he does when he’s excited, and Clarke feels preemptively guilty for ruining that excitement for him.

“Want some?” Wells gestures to the pot on the stove as Clarke slips into the chair next to his. Clarke shakes her head, pulls off her beanie, and fluffs her hair.

“I actually have something to talk to you about, but I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

Wells furrows his brow and eyes Clarke suspiciously, his hand frozen on his spoon, and asks, “Well?”

“Lexa has a boyfriend,” Clarke says, bracing herself for a barrage of questions.

Wells’ spoon drops with a clink. He crosses his arms on the table and purses his lips. Long seconds pass, Wells just looking at Clarke, his expression unreadable and his lips pressed tightly together. Clarke squirms in her seat, but holds his gaze.

“Say something.”

“How?” Wells is eerily calm. His arms are still folded in front of him, his macaroni and cheese forgotten.

“How does Lexa have a boyfriend,” Clarke asks, and then immediately feels silly for asking. Wells doesn’t look mad yet, but Clarke thinks he’ll get there.

“No, Clarke, how do _you_ know any of this? How do you know Lexa, or that I know her?”

“Funny story,” Clarke starts, acutely aware that Wells won’t find it funny, “we followed you to your appointment today.”

“We?”

“I, uh, kind of dragged Octavia and Raven with me to the union because I thought you had a date.”

“Ah, so the Powerpuff Girls are stalking me now?”

“Sort of. I like to think of it as caring aggressively.”

“Right,” he says, obviously skeptical, “and how exactly did you know where I would be?”

“I may have looked at the calendar in your room,” Clarke admits sheepishly. Her cheeks are aflame, and Wells, surprisingly, doesn’t seem furious yet. His eyebrows shoot up dangerously close to his hairline for a second, and he does that thing where he bites thoughtfully on the inside of his cheeks, but his nostrils aren’t flaring like they would if he was actually pissed at Clarke.

“We really gotta work on boundaries, Clarke,” Wells says, and then he purses his lips again and uncrosses his arms. Clarke waits patiently as Wells looks away for a moment, either processing the information she’s already given him or figuring out what to ask next. He frowns and asks, “How do you even know Lexa?”

“I don’t,” Clarke says, maybe a little too quickly, “but apparently Octavia met her yesterday at rugby practice.”

“I didn’t know she played rugby,” Wells says in a far-away voice. Clarke doesn’t know if he means Octavia or Lexa.

“We don’t know much about the boyfriend, but I saw them at a coffee shop looking pretty cozy yesterday.”

“I thought you didn’t know Lexa,” Wells says, and Clarke feels conflicted. She isn’t sure whether or not to tell him that she was just as floored by the other girl as he seemed to be.

“I didn’t,” Clarke says, quickly following up with, “I mean I don’t. I just recognized her when I saw her with you at the union.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Wells says, apparently not picking up on how flustered Clarke is, “I mean, you’ve seen her. Hard to forget a face like that."

More like impossible, Clarke thinks.

"And she’s crazy smart. Like, intimidatingly smart.”

“I’m sorry, Wells,” Clarke says. She reaches across the table to squeeze his hand. Wells isn’t mad, and as relieved as she is about that, she can practically hear the disappointment in his voice.

“Don’t be sorry. Well, maybe be sorry for stalking me, but not for telling me the truth.”

“Sorry about the stalking then,” Clarke says, smiling sheepishly at him. The corners of Wells’ mouth twitch up as though he wants to smile, and then shoot back down just as quickly.

“Oh shit,” he says, bringing both of his hands to the back of his head. He leans back in his chair, his eyes fixed on a ceiling tile.

“What?”

“Too bad you guys didn’t find this stuff out a little earlier,” he says, “I sort of asked her out this afternoon.”

Clarke’s heart rate spikes so abruptly that she feels it in her throat. She isn’t sure if it’s second-hand embarrassment for Wells, who almost definitely got shot down, or some misplaced fear that, well, she isn’t exactly sure why she should be afraid; even if Lexa were open to being asked out, it’s not like Clarke knows her well enough to do the asking, or like she'd ever want to actively pursue the same girl as her best friend. Still, it takes everything in Clarke to minimize her reaction into the sort of casual interest that she, Wells’ best friend, should show in this situation.

“How’d that go?”

“She said she had other plans,” Wells says, “which was probably her way of letting me down easy.”

“Oh, man,” Clarke says with a grimace.

“And I, a fool,” Wells starts, talking over Clarke’s interjection at the phrase, “kept trying. She probably thinks I’m a creep.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t,” Clarke says, even though she isn’t sure.

He looks at Clarke, and the disappointment is finally settling into his face. His arms fall heavily down onto the table and he slouches forward.

“She said she was going to the Dropship this weekend and I basically invited myself along. Who does that, Clarke?”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it, Wells. It could’ve been worse.”

“How exactly could it have been worse?”

“I mean, she could’ve been mean about turning you down. She could’ve punched you, or worse, gotten her giant boyfriend to punch you.”

“Is he really giant?” The small voice he asks in makes Clarke want to fib, if only to preserve Wells’ ego, but she doesn’t.

“Compared to me, yes. Compared to you, well, yeah. He’s pretty jacked.”

Wells sighs and wistfully says, “Good for Lexa, I guess.”

“You’re pretty great, you know that, right,” Clarke asks. He rolls his eyes at her, but smiles.

“Do you think I should apologize to her? Y’know, make sure she knows I wasn’t trying to be a creep.”

“I really don’t think it’s that big of a deal,” Clarke says, “but maybe don’t show up at the Dropship.”

“Duh,” Wells says, and he finally laughs for what feels like the first time in forever.

“Why don’t you come home with me this weekend? My mom’s requesting family time, and I’m sure she’d be thrilled to make it a Griffin-Jaha get-together.”

“Sure. I’m significantly less likely to embarrass myself that way.”

“You’re not wrong,” Clarke admits.

“Thanks, Clarke,” Wells says, and for a split second, Clarke feels like they're kids again, like she’s just wiped away his tears before the other sixth graders can see them fall. She feels like he’s thanking her for something that doesn’t need a thank-you.

“Don’t thank me. I’m literally just inviting you because my mom likes you more than me.”

“Why wouldn’t she? Contrary to this whole incident, I’m great with the ladies. Abby included.” Wells wags his eyebrows suggestively and Clarke launches her beanie at his face. It smacks him and he flings it right back.

“You’re disgusting.”

“I am who I am. Seriously though, Clarke,” he says, completely aware that Clarke hates these sappy moments, “thank you for looking out for me.”

“Always,” she promises.

Clarke’s awful day becomes ten times easier when she discreetly texts Bellamy that Wells is sad. While she keeps the reasoning to herself in an attempt not to embarrass Wells any further, she tells Bellamy that the other guy could probably use better cheering up than Clarke’s half-assed attempt at competing against him on any of his Xbox games. Bellamy doesn’t bother texting back, choosing instead to show up at their front door within twenty minutes of Clarke pressing send, Nathan and Murphy in tow, requesting an impromptu boys’ night at the frat house. Clarke can’t even begin to imagine what their plans entail, but within five minutes the guys are whisking Wells out of the house, and Bellamy only offers Clarke a wink before pulling the door closed.

Clarke loves Wells, and she meant it when she said she would always have his back, but she’s grateful to have the house to herself. Being there for Wells is important, but Clarke is desperate to turn around her own shitty day without having to worry about his.

When she’s finally alone, Clarke lets out the deep breath she feels like she’s been holding in all day. She heads back into her bedroom to strip off her all-black stealth costume in favor of her comfiest pair of sweatpants and an oversized crewneck that used to belong to her dad. She piles her long hair into a messy bun on top of her head and rolls her shoulders to ease some of the tension. When she’s comfortable, Clarke goes back to the kitchen and makes herself a cup of hot chocolate – the kind from the packet that’s sort of tasteless, but always reminds her of a childhood spent sipping hot chocolate even in the height of summer. The smell alone makes her head swim with happy memories.

Clarke takes her mug into her bedroom, leaving it on the chipped, wooden windowsill beside her bed. She crawls under her covers with a heavy sigh. In this moment, Clarke can think of a hundred reasons to smile, a hundred reasons to laugh, even, but mostly, she thinks of red ink staining her chemistry test and her mother’s frustrated sigh and her father disappearing before her very eyes. Clarke’s chest feels just a little tighter, and her throat, too. Her eyes tingle at first, then burn, and finally, _finally_ , Clarke cries.

Hot tears stream down Clarke’s cheeks, and she paws aimlessly at her eyes for a few seconds before giving up and letting it happen. Her face gets hot and her shoulders heave. She cries harder than she has in a while, without making any attempt to muffle her sobs or stop herself. One arm wraps uselessly around her torso and she uses the other to swipe at her runny nose. Clarke lets the events of the day wash over her, along with her tears, for a few long minutes.

When she’s all cried out, Clarke is drained. She’s sort of exhausted; not physically, but mentally. More than exhaustion, though, Clarke feels relief. The frustration she felt earlier dissipates easily into resignation. It’s easier now for her to accept one bad grade, one bad sandwich, one bad dream, one pretty, but straight, girl. She sips her hot chocolate, which has gone cold, and relaxes. _It’s just a bad day_ , Clarke remembers, _not a bad life_.

The best thing she can think to do is to grab one of the two scrapbooks she owns. It’s her favorite. Clarke made it when she was in middle school, during her slightly embarrassing scrapbooking phase when she would beg her parents to ply her with stickers and gel pens. She remembers picking out the neon green album and lettering it in messy, Sharpied-on handwriting to say _Clarke Griffin’s Best Friends and Fam 4 Lyfe_. She rolls her eyes at her younger self when she sees the laughable illustrations in the margins and asymmetrical pieces snipped off the edges of the pictures. Secretly, Clarke is strangely proud of herself for creating something so simultaneously cringe-worthy and perfect.

Clarke stares longingly at the pictures. She and Wells beaming at her fifth birthday party, wearing roller skates and matching blue t-shirts, both with rings of yellow cake frosting smeared on their faces. She and Octavia in seventh grade, not long after they met, Clarke crossing her eyes for the camera and Octavia crookedly sticking out her tongue while a gangly Bellamy flexes his muscles in the distant background. Clarke as a small child, one little arm wrapped around her mother’s neck, and the other around her father’s head with a hand splayed over his eyes as he smiles indulgently. It almost hurts to remember all of these good, faraway times, but not nearly as much as it would hurt to forget them.

Clarke takes her time. She finishes her drink and when she gets hungry, she drags her scrapbook into the kitchen, reheats Wells’ macaroni and cheese from the fridge, and eats in a kitchen chair with her feet propped on the table, flipping pages and laughing through mouthfuls of noodles.

At some point, the solitude of having the house completely to herself on a Wednesday evening loses its novelty. Clarke’s foul mood is behind her, and she’s ready to face the world again. This is how she finds herself sitting in Meadowlark for the second time in as many days.

Clarke left her house thinking she’d get a jumpstart on some schoolwork. She made yet another wardrobe change, this time sporting blue jeans, a V-neck, and a leather jacket, because it made her feel like a badass. Within five minutes of walking out her front door, Clarke was back in her favorite booth, this time settling in to face the counter, where Finn was not-so-subtly eyeing her as she plugged in her laptop.

And Clarke was deciding whether or not she liked the obvious attention.

When everything is perfectly arranged on the tabletop, Clarke approaches the counter. Finn smiles at her as though they aren’t both aware of the way he’s been watching her since she walked in the door.

“Gracing me with your presence two days in a row, Princess? I must’ve been very good in a past life,” he says, leaning casually on the counter, “or should I call you ‘Clarke in the meantime’?”

“’Clarke’ will do just fine,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“I’m sure you will,” he counters, “how’d the report go?”

“It went. There’s a seventy-seven percent chance my TA will give it back to me basically bleeding with corrections, but it’s done.”

“And for that, I salute you,” Finn says, straightening his posture and dramatically bringing a hand to his brow to do just that. His hair flops down into his face and Clarke can’t stifle her laugh. She has half a mind to scan the coffee shop for other people, just to know whether Finn is always this silly, or just when nobody’s around to see it.

“Save your salute for if I pass this lab.”

“Clarke, when you pass this lab, I will salute you again, right here or wherever you’ll have me,” he says, and Clarke’s cheeks flush. He seems to realize the impact of what he’s just said, but he easily moves the conversation by offering, “how about, as a show of my blind faith in your abilities, your next coffee’s on me?”

“How exactly does that show your faith in my abilities?”

“I’m not totally sure, but I’d really like to take care of your drink,” his dark eyes bore into Clarke’s through the wisps of his hair that seem to tickle his eyelashes. He looks really handsome in this moment, and Clarke can’t think of a good reason to say no. And maybe it’s because she doesn’t want to say no.

“In that case, I’m splurging,” Clarke says, and Finn’s smile brightens. “Forget coffee, I want a drink with a complicated name, something pretentious.”

“How about I do you one better and make you something off the secret menu?”

“There’s a secret menu?” Clarke’s been visiting Meadowlark for what feels like forever, and she’s never heard of a secret menu.

“Not really, but I can make you something that would for sure be a hit on our secret menu if we had one.”

“I suppose that’ll do, I guess,” Clarke says, trying and probably failing to veil her interest, “I fully expect to be wowed, though.”

“Oh, you will be.” Finn winks and Clarke’s cheeks burn and the few minutes it takes for him to make her overly complicated drink are filled with Clarke watching the way Finn moves in his work station and then looking away quickly whenever he seems to feel her eyes on him.

The end result is phenomenal. Clarke moans, _actually moans_ , when she tastes a hint of butterscotch after sipping down a thin layer of whipped cream. When Finn asks what she thinks, Clarke is pretty sure he already knows, if the smirk on his face is any indication.

“It’s okay.”

“Just okay? Do you normally moan like that for drinks that are just okay?”

“Fine. It’s a goddamn delight, Finn,” Clarke admits. She closes her eyes and sniffs, “You might actually be a coffee genius.”

“Finally, the recognition I deserve.” This time, Finn places both hands over his heart and smiles dopily at Clarke.

“Yeah yeah, don’t let it go to your head, coffee boy.”

“Did you actually bring your homework or are you just here to harass me?”

“I have stuff to work on, but harassing you is more fun than doing it.”

The front door opens and Finn looks over Clarke’s shoulder to see a new customer coming toward them. He looks a little reluctant to have to switch his focus.

“Get back to work, slacker,” Clarke says, and Finn smiles impishly at her.

“You too, Princess. Your flirting is throwing off my work flow.” Finn winks at Clarke again before seamlessly greeting the little old lady who takes Clarke’s spot at the counter.

Clarke settles into her seat, still sort of amazed by her drink, more than a little bit impressed that Finn made it so easily and confidently, but determined not to think too much about what it might mean. Was she really flirting with Finn? Yes, yes she was. It felt good to flirt with someone, like strengthening a muscle that Clarke forgot she had. Why should it be any more complicated than that?

Somehow, Clarke manages to focus enough to get a good amount of work done without being distracted by Finn. By the time she looks up again, it’s almost ten-thirty. She’s been the only person in the coffee shop for the last forty-five minutes or so, and it occurs to her that Finn probably could’ve shut the place down if not for her.

“When do I need to be out of here?” Clarke drapes her earbuds over her shoulders and waits for Finn to tell her to go.

“We’re open until midnight on Wednesdays, so there’s no rush.” Finn has a small white towel draped over his shoulder, and he’s using another one to wipe down one of the machines.

“And you never get to leave before then? Not even when it’s this dead?”

“It’s not dead today, Princess. You’re here.”

“Yeah, but I can go if you want to lock up or whatever.”

“You really don’t have to do that, Clarke. Seriously, I’m okay being here with you.”

Clarke swallows a little bit harder considering his words, but she bites her lip to keep from responding. His eyes linger on her again, and she smiles.

Finn disappears into the swinging door behind his work space for a few moments and reemerges with a huge garbage bag in each hand. He’s ditched his faded blue apron and thrown a loose flannel shirt on over it.

“I’m just going to take out the trash, so don’t get any crazy ideas about running away without saying goodbye first, okay?”

“Okay,” Clarke agrees as she watches him walk away. If Clarke is being honest, none of her crazy ideas involve leaving without saying goodbye. In fact, the craziest of her crazy ideas involves following Finn right out that door and kissing him. Finn’s cute and obviously interested in Clarke; Clarke’s cute and obviously interested. She doesn’t want to overcomplicate things in her head. She doesn’t want to consider that Finn, a shameless flirt, probably speaks to tons of girls the way he speaks to Clarke. She doesn’t want to delve into the fact that he works ungodly hours at her absolute favorite coffee shop and will continue to do so, whether or not her crazy idea goes well. She doesn’t want to contemplate the future or the fallout. Right now, Clarke doesn’t want to think at all; Clarke just wants to act.

Finn is walking back empty handed from the dumpster when Clarke rounds the corner of the building. His hands are shoved in his pockets, and he smiles a little less enthusiastically when he sees Clarke approaching him.

“Saying goodbye already?”

Clarke doesn’t say goodbye. Instead, she lets Finn get close enough that she can grab a handful of his t-shirt and tugs him gently toward her. The heat of his skin is so different from the chill in the air that Clarke finds herself staring at her loose fist with wonder, her knuckles pressing gently against him. When she glances at his face, Finn is looking at her curiously.

“Not saying goodbye, then?” His breath tickles Clarke’s face, and then he leans in even closer.

Kissing Finn is nice. Clarke enjoys the unexpected smoothness of his jaw under her fingertips and the way the heat of his body seeps into her skin through their clothes. She likes how close he holds her and the way his grip is as soft and tentative as the brick wall at her back is hard and rough. She giggles when his hair tickles her cheek while he kisses her neck. She could probably do without his overzealous tongue darting into her mouth at random, his surprisingly high-pitched, needy moans, and the slightly too hard nips to her top lip and her throat, but overall it just feels good to be wanted.

It feels so good that Clarke finds herself easily agreeing to follow Finn back into Meadowlark, where he locks the doors, lowers the lights, and draws the blinds before laying her down on the slightly worn tweed couch opposite the row of bookshelves in the front corner of the shop. She doesn’t even let herself get too caught up the memory of the girl she first saw sitting not five feet away. Clarke forces herself not to overthink. Clarke acts.

 

Clarke doesn’t exactly sneak into her house. Sure, she acutely aware of the sound her own key turning in the door must make, and she instinctively glances at closed blinds wondering whether Wells and Octavia are around, but Clarke is definitely not sneaking. She’s just consciously avoiding any undue inquisition by her best friends.

She thinks she’s in the clear when she walks in to find the living room completely dark. Of course, Clarke realizes she’s wrong when she hits the living room light and hears a groan coming from the couch. Octavia leans up on her elbows to look over the back of the couch at Clarke and then stretches and smacks her lips.

“You woke me up,” Octavia whines.

“Accidentally,” Clarke says, trying to nonchalantly adjust her jacket to cover one of the annoyingly placed hickies she has, “but I think we can both agree it’s better than you spending the night on the couch.”

Octavia hums, then tilts her head suspiciously and asks, “Where have you been?”

“Nowhere,” Clarke says, and as soon as the word leaves her mouth, obviously too rushed to be true, Octavia’s face curls into a devious smile. Clarke tries to save herself, throwing out, “I was just studying. At a coffee shop.”

“Studying,” Octavia asks, “that’s weird. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were doing a walk of shame.”

“Uh…”

“At,” Octavia checks her phone on the coffee table, “eleven forty-five on a school night.”

“I’m allowed to study late on a school night, O. It’s how I, you know, stay in school.”

“You look like you came out the wrong end of a wood chipper.”

Clarke knows she must look disheveled, even after she tried to clean herself up in the cramped bathroom at Meadowlark while Finn waited patiently. She tried to smooth out the wrinkles in her shirt and fluff the matted sections of her hair, but there was only so much she could do. Of course, Octavia would spot those not-so-minor details like a hawk.

“It’s not a big deal,” Clarke concedes. Denial is getting her nowhere.

“Is it anybody special? I know I wanted to set you up with Lexa, but that ship _might_ have sailed, and you can tell me, Clarkey. No judgment,” Octavia says before adding under her breath, “unless it’s some douchebag, like Murphy.”

“Nobody special, just a guy I know. Can we talk about it later?”

“As long as we actually talk about it soon.”

“Fine.”

“One more question: was he any good?” Octavia tries to wiggle her eyebrows suggestively, but it happens so minutely that Clarke probably wouldn’t notice it if she didn’t know the other girl so well.

“He wasn’t bad,” Clarke says, because while Finn didn’t necessarily rock her world, she could definitely see some potential if they made this a regular thing.

“Hmm,” Octavia hums thoughtfully and says, “between you getting laid and Raven constantly bragging about her boy-toy earlier, I’m officially living vicariously through you both.”

“It’s probably for the best. I’m not looking forward to having to run interference when Bellamy tries to vet your next guy for information.”

“God, you’re probably right. At least I still have Wells to be single and loveless with. How’d your little chat go?”

“He was sad, but Bellamy and the fratties picked him up for what I can only imagine as drunken debauchery to cheer him up.”

“My brother has his moments.”

“Hopefully getting Wells home in one piece is one of those moments.”

“One, Wells is too smart to let the other idiots get him into any real trouble. Two, I’m pretty sure that Bell secretly considers Wells his best friend, so I’m about five thousand percent sure he’ll keep him out of trouble if this is the one night that Wells’ judgment goes out the window.”

“You’re right,” Clarke agrees, “we have nothing to worry about.”

 

The doorbell ringing startles Clarke awake. There is hardly any sunlight filtering through her window, and her phone tells her that she doesn’t even need to be awake for two more hours. Still, someone is ringing the bell, quickly pressing the button, so that only the first, shrill note rings out in the house. It’s the second day in a row Clarke has been rudely awakened, and she is fully prepared to destroy whoever’s to blame.

Clarke pads out of her room in her pajamas and rolls her eyes at Octavia’s still closed door, because, of course, Octavia’s wakes up when Clarke is creeping in, but not when a crazy person is at their door. The house is quiet, save for the incessant doorbell chime, and Clarke wonders whether Wells drunkenly lost his keys or something.

She pulls the door open, cursing the cool air. Birds are faintly chirping and there’s a girl standing with her finger over the buzzer in athletic gear, and her cheekbones are so high and defined that Clarke thinks she’s dreaming. Clarke wants to ask her why she’s being so irritatingly loud in the wee hours of the morning, but the words get stuck in her throat when she looks over the girl’s shoulder. It takes a great deal of self-control not to pinch herself when Clarke realizes that Lexa is standing off to the side, absentmindedly shaking out long limbs. When their eyes meet, Lexa looks away quickly, and Clarke remembers the jolt she felt two days ago. Three times in three days Clarke has seen this girl, and if Clarke didn’t know any better, she’d think it was fate.

“Shit, sorry to wake you,” the girl with the cheekbones says, “we’re looking for Octavia. We’re supposed to run together.”

“Oh,” Clarke says licking her lips, “I think she managed to sleep through all that, but I’ll grab her.”

“You really don’t have to,” Cheekbones says.

“It’s okay,” Clarke says, knowing that Octavia would figuratively kick herself if she missed a chance to run with these two again, “you guys wanna wait inside while she gets ready?”

“Sure,” Cheekbones says, “this cold is a bitch when you’re standing still. Come on, Lexa.”

Clarke steps aside to let them through, slightly surprised by the mumbled “thanks” she gets from Lexa as the girls stand somewhat awkwardly in the living room. Lexa has her hair pulled back into a wild ponytail secured by a thick looking yellow headband. Her cheeks are rosy from the cold and Clarke tries not to notice that her lips are slightly chapped.

“You can sit if you want, I’m just going to get O.”

Clarke lets herself into Octavia’s room and closes the door behind her. Octavia is burrowed up to her shoulders in a huge blanket, and her black hair is fanned out over her pillow. Octavia is snoring, ever so slightly, and her phone is buzzing with what Clarke assumes to be an alarm.

“O,” Clarke calls out, “it’s time to get up.”

Octavia doesn’t respond, so Clarke moves closer, until she’s only a foot from the bed and pokes the other girl’s shoulder.

“Octavia Blake, the sky’s awake, so be awake.”

Octavia groans and turns her head away from Clarke, halfheartedly pushing away Clarke's hand. Time to pull out the big guns.

“O, sorry I lied last night, but I was totally sleeping with Bellamy,” Clarke says directly into Octavia’s ear.

“What the fuck, Griffin,” Octavia yells as she propels herself up onto her knees and jabs a finger at Clarke, “he’s my brother and you’re practically my sister. And _he’s_ practically _your_ brother. Ick.”

“Relax, O, you guys are my family. I just made that up to wake your ass up.” The finger wagging in Clarke’s face stills and Octavia glares at her.

“So you’re really not boning Bell?”

“Cross my heart,” Clarke says and then watches the other girl relax out of her confrontational stance and rolls her eyes, “but you are too easy.”

“Says miss one-night-stand,” Octavia counters with a smirk.

“Stop talking about my sex life and get dressed, Blake. Your running friends are waiting.”

“Crap, I overslept,” Octavia realizes.

“And slept through constant doorbell ringing, but who’s counting?”

“Anya and Lexa are here?”

“Yeah.”

Octavia launches herself out of bed, snatching clothes off the floor and tearing the ones off her body before Clarke can even get to the door. It’s nothing Clarke hasn’t seen before, but Clarke tries to give the other girl some privacy.

“Wait, Clarkey, did you talk to Lexa?” Octavia is shimmying into long gray leggings when she asks.

“No, Octavia, and it’s for the best considering the whole straight thing.”

“Jury’s still out on that. We won’t know for sure unless we see her with a young, eligible lady such as yourself. As long as you’re still eligible?”

“I am very much eligible, O, but she’s also straight.”

“Just come on this run with us,” Octavia pauses to let Clarke grumble at the idea of launching herself into a workout instead of crawling back to bed, “if she isn't charmed by your feminine wiles, or if she yaps about having a boyfriend, I’ll trip you so you can fake an injury and come home.”

“That sounds awful, so no,” Clarke says, and she means it.

Well, she means it until she and Octavia emerge from the room and Octavia introduces Clarke to Lexa and Anya; after Octavia apologizes for delaying their plan, Clarke hears a small, but sure voice ask, “Will you be joining us, Clarke?”

It’s Lexa, and the yellow in her headband is making her eyes look ridiculously intriguing even from a few feet away and when Clarke opens her mouth to turn the offer down, she instead finds herself saying, “Yeah, just give me a minute to change.”

Clarke feels like a ventriloquist dummy, mouthing words she doesn’t anticipate and can’t seem to control, but once they’re out there, she doesn’t try to take them back. Clarke avoids Octavia’s smirk as she heads into her room to layer on the most athletic and warm clothes she has. It takes less than a minute for her to rejoin the group.  
Clarke goes through the motions of shaking out her limbs the way Lexa did, and she throws in a couple stretches she’s seen Octavia do for good measure. She doesn’t complain about the bite of the morning air, or make any jokes about how un-athletic she is, and before Clarke knows it, she’s letting Anya and Octavia establish a quick pace ahead and falling into step beside Lexa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 10 will delve into more of Clarke and Lexa finally meeting each other and figuring out what to make of each other. I actually kind of agonized over how they should officially meet, which is probs why they've been obsessing over each other from afar for 19,000 words and three fictional days. Anyway, they met, and I'm pretty stoked to write about them.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa's POV. Lexa and Clarke finally officially meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. I haven't updated in a while. Europe kicked my butt, and so did coming back home to the serving job that I hate with jetlag and wanderlust. 
> 
> Major shout out to any and all of you who willingly read 20, 000 words of Clarke and Lexa existing in the same space without ever interacting. You have the patience of saints.
> 
> I agonized over this chapter more than any other I've written so far because I really wanted to find a way to make Clarke and Lexa like each other as people instead of just as potential love interests, but I worked super hard and hope you like it.
> 
> Let me know if you see any egregious typos, as I'm HYPED on caffeine and it's 2 am.
> 
> Happy reading!

The heat flaring high in Lexa’s cheeks has less to do with the punishing pace Anya and Octavia are setting than it does with Clarke, who’s managed to keep her spot beside Lexa for the last three quarters of a mile, even though Lexa would bet money that she isn’t big on running.

Lexa can hear it in Clarke’s ragged breathing, the way she huffs and wheezes while Octavia chatters away and Anya easily responds. Lexa can see it through stolen glances at Clarke’s bright red cheeks and sweaty brow. She can see it in her slightly uneven gait and the awkward hunch of her shoulders and in the tight clench of her hands. As far as the eye can see, Clarke is definitely not a runner. But here she is, clearly overtaxing her body, refusing to fall behind.

Lexa is as impressed as she is concerned.

Lexa doesn’t know Clarke. Well, she knows that Clarke has impossibly blue eyes and a taste for trendy coffee shops, or maybe just the shaggy-haired employees of trendy coffee shops. And Lexa knows that Clarke ran into a door at least once. But really, fundamentally, Lexa doesn’t know Clarke. Still, she has the unshakeable feeling that Clarke doesn’t plan on stopping until the other girls do, which, considering Anya and Lexa’s daily routine and Octavia’s obvious fitness, won’t be for another few miles.

It isn’t her place, Lexa considers, to set limits for Clarke, but the other girl is already dangerously close to hurting herself. Lexa knows from experience that it isn’t easy or painless to go from rarely running to practically racing through seven-minute miles in the cold. She and Anya have been training for years to maintain this pace. She isn’t sure if it’s the weird, lingering guilt she feels over watching Clarke and her, well, whoever Finn is to her, makeout in an alley, or if it’s some remnant of the concern she felt when Clarke smacked into that glass door, but _something_ is making Lexa want to keep Clarke safe. Safe from any easily avoidable runner’s injury, and also from the embarrassment of having to admit to the others that she needs to slow down.

At first, Lexa shortens her strides. She makes a silent spectacle of creating distance between herself and the two girls in front of her. She smiles inwardly when Clarke adjusts to match her slower pace. When there’s a sizeable gap between her and Clarke and Anya and Octavia, Lexa sort of dramatically makes her breathing sound more labored. It isn’t really lying, she thinks, if it’s for a good cause. She feels Clarke’s eyes briefly on the side of her face, but commits to her performance, quickening her breathing to match Clarke’s.  
Octavia seems to realize that she and Anya are leaving their friends behind, and she turns around to effortlessly back pedal without slowing, asking, “You all right back there?”

“Good,” Clarke offers too quickly, probably straining herself just to get out the word.

“Want to slow down?” Octavia looks curiously at Lexa, and the way she narrows her eyebrows makes Lexa feel like she’s under some sort of scrutiny.

“You guys go ahead,” Lexa says, making sure to glance at Clarke as well as Octavia so they won’t be suspicious, “I’m not really feeling up to this pace today.”

Anya, thankfully, doesn’t comment beyond a mumbled “okay”, even though Lexa knows she’ll be hounding her about it later. Lexa never shies away from a challenging pace.

“I think,” Clarke rushes out in a small voice, “I’ll stick with her.”

“Whatever you say, Clarke,” Octavia shrugs, looking between Clarke and Lexa quickly before she eases back into a forward run, “see you at home.”

Anya and Octavia glance at each other for a second before agreeing to kick their run up a notch, and then they’re disappearing up ahead. Meanwhile, Lexa falls into drastically slowed jog beside Clarke. It doesn’t take long for Clarke’s breathing to even out and her posture to relax just a bit. Lexa feels pretty slick, like she’s pulled the wool over the other girl’s eyes, until Clarke mumbles out a quiet “thanks”.

“For what?” Lexa feigns confusion, but apparently poorly, because Clarke turns her head and arches an eyebrow.

“You know what,” Clarke says, “I bet you could’ve kept that pace in your sleep.”

That same heat flares in Lexa’s cheeks, despite the still chilly morning air.

“Everyone needs a break sometimes,” Lexa offers, her gaze straight ahead.

“Sure,” Clarke says skeptically, and the silence comes back in full force, but Lexa wants to keep the other girl talking now that she isn’t too winded to formulate coherent sentences. It’s weird, Lexa thinks, since she and Anya are usually happy to run in relative silence. But running with Clarke isn’t like running with Anya, and Lexa finds herself thinking of casual ways to initiate conversation.

“Your strides are uneven,” Lexa blurts out, because she’s terrible at being casual. She also can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t involve bringing up either Clarke’s glass door collision or Finn, and she really wants to avoid creeping the other girl out. The words are already out of her mouth when Lexa considers exactly how creepy her observation of Clarke’s strides might seem.

“What?” Clarke’s eyes shoot to Lexa and then ahead again.

“Your strides,” Lexa repeats, “the steps you’re taking with your right leg don’t match the ones you’re taking with your left. One of your legs is working harder than the other, and it opens you up for injury.”

“Oh,” Clarke says, and Lexa would probably kick herself if she weren’t in public, or at least not in Clarke’s line of sight. Silence again.

“It might be your shoes,” Lexa continues, because she really can’t tell whether the silence is more or less awkward than her attempt at talking to Clarke, “are they comfortable?”

“I, uh, I guess so,” Clarke says, “they feel how they always feel.”

Lexa looks down to Clarke’s tennis shoes, not that she can tell much about them while they’re in motion.

“We should stop,” Lexa says, transitioning from her slow jog into standing still and allowing Clarke to do the same. She looks at the other girl’s shoes again. They’re practically new, black Nike sneakers with neon orange accents. She focuses her gaze intently on Clarke’s laces, anxiously avoiding the very likely look of confusion on the blonde’s face.

“They look pretty new,” Lexa notes, “have you considered lacing them differently?”

To Lexa’s surprise, when she looks up to other girl’s face, Clarke doesn’t seem so much confused as she does genuinely curious. Clarke’s eyes are trained on Lexa’s face, her head tilted slightly to the side.

“Are the laces important? I don’t think I’ve ever tried to change them, but I’m not usually much of a runner.”

That’s all it takes for Lexa to dive into a probably unnecessary run-down on the importance of proper lacing and the dangers of failing to correct your strides. She loses herself for a few minutes, spouting off facts and figures from the Runner’s Digest issues she’s read online. Anya usually shuts her down when she goes on and on, even Lincoln eventually shushes her, but Clarke doesn’t stop her. In fact, Clarke listens so intently that Lexa finds herself getting anxious about how to stop herself. Something about Clarke makes her nervous, and Lexa really isn’t in a position to be getting nervous around pretty straight girls.

Somehow, instead of eventually stopping Lexa, Clarke allows her to test the tightness and the effectiveness of her laces, even sitting on cold cement and pulling her sneakers loose to let Lexa re-lace them. Other joggers pass them by, some pausing to look curiously down at Lexa as she crouches to tie Clarke’s shoes until they’re noticeably more comfortable, but Clarke doesn’t seem to register them. It’s unsettling, the way she defers to Lexa as though she’s a true expert, asking her questions here and there. _Clarke_ is unsettling, Lexa decides, though she can’t pinpoint exactly why.

When Clarke’s shoes are tied and Lexa is satisfied with her work, she helps Clarke to her feet and they resume their jog. Clarke thanks Lexa again when she realizes that her shoes really were negatively affecting her, and Lexa takes pride in the way Clarke’s strides already seem to have evened out. Lexa starts mentally planning out a route back to Clarke’s house – figuring the other girl won’t mind if they stop far short of the six miles Anya and Octavia are probably halfway done with.

“You know a lot about this stuff,” Clarke says after a few minutes of quiet, “running, I mean.”

“I run a lot to stay in shape for rugby,” Lexa says. She also has the added advantage of her parents being fitness nuts, and, “I learned the hard way to make sure my shoes are in good shape.”

“Sounds like a story,” Clarke says, craning her neck to look at Lexa again.

Lexa keeps her eyes fixed straight ahead, cool air still whipping at her cheeks.

“A few blisters, some shin splints, one pretty bad case of bursitis in my hip,” Lexa winces remembering it, “bursitis is—”

“Inflammation or swelling in the sacs around the joints,” Clarke interjects easily, still looking at Lexa, “I know what it is.”

“Oh, sorry,” Lexa says, feeling like a jerk for assuming Clarke wouldn’t know.

“Don’t be. I’m pre-med. Bursitis comes up from time to time.”

“Of course,” Lexa says, “you probably know more about it than I do.”

“Reading about it’s one thing, but living with it is something else.”

“For what it’s worth, I don’t recommend living with it,” Lexa advises.

“Fair enough,” Clarke lets out a breathy laugh that completely catches Lexa off-guard. It’s unlike any laugh Lexa has ever heard before, and Lexa is wracking her brain thinking of what she could’ve said or done to deserve something like that that breathy laugh when Clarke asks, “can we walk for a little while?”

“Sure,” Lexa says, briefly surprised Clarke would admit to wanting a rest. The girls slow into an easy walk, the morning sky finally brightening around them. In the distance, Lexa can see the sun creeping above the trees that line this part of the trail.

“I’m sure you can tell I’m not exactly in top running shape,” Clarke says, laughing easily at herself. When Lexa glances at her again, she’s looking forward, her eyes tracing the rise of the sun like Lexa’s had been. For just a moment, Lexa’s voice catches in her throat, and her eyes are frozen on the other girl. Clarke’s cheeks aren’t so red anymore, but Lexa isn’t even sure whether she would’ve considered the color unflattering on the other girl. The fleece jacket she’s wrapped up in looks so soft, especially where it hints at her curves, and Lexa knows how great Clarke’s legs look in her dark leggings after seeing them up close just minutes ago. When the blonde’s words register in Lexa’s mind, she wants to emphatically deny any and all claims that Clarke is anything but a perfect shape.

When the moment passes, Lexa regains her senses, namely her sense of self-preservation, and she fixes her eyes on the sunrise and forces away thoughts of inappropriately complimenting Clarke’s body. Instead, Lexa shrugs, mumbles, “No problem,” and lets another stretch of silence fall over them. It’s Clarke who breaks it this time.

“So, what are you studying? Other than the complexities of finding the right way to lace running shoes, of course.” There’s a funny lilt to Clarke’s voice, something playful and oddly familiar to be coming from someone Lexa hadn’t spoken to before today. Lexa thought she wanted to keep Clarke talking because it was too nerve-wracking to run silently beside her, but her nerves are hardly dissipating now that Clarke has obviously found her voice.

“I’m doubling in English and Poli-Sci.”

Clarke hums, more to herself than to Lexa, but Lexa hears it just the same. When Lexa looks over, the other girl looks surprised.

“What?”

“Nothing, I just didn’t peg you for liberal arts.” Lexa doesn’t miss the way Clarke’s brow is furrowed, and she finds her own brow crinkling in response.

“What did you expect me to study?”

“I don’t know,” Clarke starts, “maybe math or something research based. You just seem so comfortable with facts and figures.”

Clarke’s not wrong. Lexa is very comfortable with facts and figures. She’s always done well with concrete answers and solutions, but Lexa also loves the challenge of non-answers. She loves being allowed to interpret information and apply it in ways that haven’t yet been considered. Lexa also believes wholeheartedly in the power of words and language and rhetoric, and her fields of study allow her to explore all of those things in depth. But all of that seems like too much to share with Clarke in their first conversation.

“You’d be surprised at the amount of research that goes into Political Science. Plenty of facts and figures.”

“How about charts,” Clarke asks, that funny lilt still coming through her voice, “I bet you’d do well with charts.”

“We even run into a few charts here and there.” The smile that Clarke gives Lexa is just a widening of her lips and another quirk of her eyebrow, but it brings out the tiny cleft Lexa hadn’t noticed in her chin.

“Wow, a thorough background in running, proper literary education, _and_ you’re adept with charts. You’re a triple threat,” Clarke says, and Lexa can’t help but notice that, even with that funny lilt, Clarke never sounds insincere.

Lexa smiles inwardly because it feels like Clarke’s being flirty, or something dangerously close to it. Then, she abruptly remembers that she shouldn’t be flirting with Clarke, who’s at worst taken, straight, and not actually trying to sound flirty, and at best still taken. Besides, Lexa is committing herself to Anya’s school of non-committal behavior, and Lexa intends to be a diligent student if it means avoiding what she went through with Costia.

The walk back to Clarke’s house doesn’t take long, and it’s filled with tons of questions, generally from Clarke. Most of them are school or rugby related, but sometimes, if Lexa isn’t mistaken, Clarke’s tone seems again to gravitate toward flirtation. Lexa squanders most of those moments by trying to decode them and wish them away and summon them at will, all at once.

Clarke is as engaging as she is gorgeous, and it sends Lexa’s brain into overdrive. It doesn’t change Lexa’s resolve to avoid dating, but it definitely affects her. Clarke’s obviously intelligent, but her scope of knowledge is so different from Lexa’s. She’s funny, not in the biting way that Anya’s funny, but in a way that’s all her own; the way Clarke makes Lexa laugh in the brief time they spend together, and the way she _could_ make Lexa laugh if Lexa wasn’t hell-bent on carefully measuring her interactions with the blonde, is unprecedented. Even though she can’t quite articulate why, Lexa knows that Clarke is special. She may be vehemently against dating right now, or any time soon, but Lexa really wants Clarke to stay in her orbit.

That want is what has Lexa lingering a few feet from Clarke’s welcome mat while the other girl stands on it, key in hand. Clarke is still facing Lexa, still giggling her way through an anecdote about embarrassing herself in front of her possibly demonic TA – because Clarke’s clumsiness is apparently a constant, and not an anomaly like Lexa thought – and Lexa is hardly listening because she’s so busy searching for a reason, literally any reason, to be around Clarke again after she disappears behind her front door.

But in a non-date way.

Lexa, a newly self-proclaimed anti-dater, is just brainstorming reasons to see her new clumsy, unsettling, beautiful friend Clarke again.  
And then Clarke is laughing and blushing at her own story as though she’s hearing it for the first time, and even though Lexa completely missed the tail end of it, she finds herself genuinely laughing along because Clarke’s laugh is so contagious.

“God, you must think I’m a mess,” Clarke says, as her laughter tapers off into an easy smile.

“Not at all,” Lexa answers, even though Clarke kind of is a mess. _A beautiful mess_ , Lexa thinks, despite her best efforts to control her own thoughts.

“First the door thing at Meadowlark, and now you’ve had to re-lace my shoes and listen to my stories.”

Lexa’s face heats up one more time at the realization that Clarke remembers her from the coffee shop, too; even more so when she imagines that Clarke doesn’t know Lexa saw her again last night.

“I like your stories,” Lexa admits, “and I’m a pretty staunch believer in correcting shoe problems before they become body problems.” Clarke laughs and Lexa adds, “The door thing could’ve happened to anybody, but especially somebody who tends to be a bit, um, clumsier, than most.”

“You calling me clumsy,” Clarke asks in mock indignation, even as she barely contains her smile.

“If the shoe fits,” Lexa says. The sun is high in the sky, but the cool air is finally chilling Lexa’s bones; Clarke’s too, if her slight shiver is any indication. Lexa still doesn’t want to leave.

“You _are_ the leading expert on shoes fitting,” Clarke says.

For the first time in a while, the silence returns and Lexa isn’t sure how to break it. The way Clarke looks at her, bright blue eyes confidently locked on hers and lip trapped between her teeth, is really confusing. It reminds Lexa vaguely of her first date with Costia. Different place, different weather, different eyes, but the same air of uncertainty and temptation.

It scares her.

“I should prob—” Lexa starts, but she’s stopped by a flurry of motion in the corner of her eye and an almost painful smack against her ass.

“What the hell,” Lexa says, ripping her eyes from Clarke to see Anya grinning and jogging in place.

“Did ya’ miss us, quitter?”

“I hate you,” Lexa says, discreetly rubbing the pained part of her butt. Clarke laughs, and Octavia takes that as a cue that it’s okay to laugh, too. 

“Sorry to have left you with Miss Grumpypants, Clarke. I hope she behaved for you,” Anya says.

“I’m pretty sure Lexa was on her best behavior,” Clarke offers. If Lexa weren’t so busy blushing, she might notice another sly look from Octavia to Clarke.

“And I hope Clarkey here didn’t gripe too much for you, Lexa,” Octavia chimes in. Clarke is quick to throw an elbow into her ribs.

“Clarke was on her best behavior, too, Octavia.”

“Well, as fun as this morning has been, I’m sweaty and have dibs on the first shower at home,” Anya says, “you ready, Lexa?”

“Yeah,” Lexa says, finally sobering from her Clarke-induced haze.

“We should do this again,” Octavia says, and Lexa suppresses a reaction to Clarke’s snort at the suggestion that she crash another run.

“Or you guys can go on your normal speed run and I can meet you on a more even playing field,” Clarke says, “maybe something involving charts or facts.” She looks right at Lexa as she says it.

“That sounds…oddly specific and also bland,” Anya says, deadpan and looking suspiciously between Lexa and Clarke without stopping her movement, “but we could meet in the middle and you two could join us on an outing of momentous importance this weekend.”

Lexa cringes. The last thing she wants is for the next time she sees Clarke is for the other girl to be all wrapped up in her coffee-slinging boyfriend.

“Momentous importance,” Octavia asks.

“You bet,” Anya says, and Lexa dreads whatever is about to come out of her mouth, “our friend Lincoln is finally getting back in the dating game.”

Lexa almost melts into a puddle of relief at Anya’s thoughtfulness.

“And so’s this one,” Anya adds, excitedly smacking Lexa’s ass again, “better late than never.”

Relief transforms rapidly into embarrassment and dread.

Clarke and Octavia both look at Lexa with apparent surprise, but it’s Octavia who blurts out, “so you _are_ single, Lexa?”

“I, uh, yeah,” Lexa says backing slowly away from the other girls and more than a little put off by Octavia’s inflection, “and I’m also going to be late for class if we don’t head out.”

“Right,” Anya says, intentionally drawing out the word so that everybody picks up on her obvious skepticism, “Lexa hates being late almost as much as she hates discussing her love life. Or lack thereof. We’ll discuss the plan for this weekend after practice, Blake, so make sure you give Blondie the details.”

“Will do,” Octavia says, taking the key from Clarke’s hand, “See you tonight.”

“Thanks for letting me tag along,” Clarke says, again directly to Lexa.

“No problem,” Lexa says, “and don’t forget to stretch. You know, so you’re not sore from the run later.”

Clarke laughs and thanks her again before she and Octavia disappear into their house, and then Lexa and Anya are running back to their apartment. Silence is not only once again comfortable for Lexa; it’s officially preferred over conversation.

Anya obliges her until the moment she closes the front door. Lexa is planning on rushing into her room while Anya takes the first shower, but her best friend stops her with the almost always foreboding, “ _So, Lex_.”

Whenever Anya starts a sentence with, “So, Lex,” it’s followed by some sort of aggravation for Lexa. When they were kids, “So, Lex,” might precede, “how would you feel about helping me to hide this this small hole I accidentally burned into my mom’s carpet,” or “how do you think we’re going to get down,” after Lexa had followed Anya to the top of the tallest tree in Lexa’s neighborhood.

This time, Lexa lets out a breath and braces herself for the worst.

“I think Blake might have little crush on you,” Anya says, and _wow_ , that is not at all what Lexa is expecting. Anya perches her butt on the arm of the couch, pulling her sneakers to the seat to unlace them. Lexa drops to the floor, trying to seem nonchalant in her stretching.

“You’re delusional, An,” she says, acutely aware that Octavia’s brand of talkative seems more like genuine curiosity, not like, well, not like Clarke’s more confusing brand of talkative.

“Must’ve been some reason for her to keep not-so-subtly asking about you during our run.”

“She asked about me?”

“You interested?” Anya looks more shocked than Lexa feels.

“What exactly happened, Anya?”

“While you were off with Blondie, Blake asked about you. _Technically_ she asked about both of us, but she was clearly more interested in you, killer.”

“I’m sure you misunderstood her,” Lexa says, although there was a seriously concerning inflection in Octavia’s voice when Lexa confirmed that she was single.

“Or she’s the latest casualty of the ‘Lexa Effect’,” Anya teases, plopping on the floor to stretch across from Lexa.

“When are you going to explain that to me?”

“Maybe when you’re older, kiddo. In the meantime, what are you going to do about Octavia?”

“What do you mean ‘do about her’, Anya? I’m not interested. Hell, _she’s_ probably not interested.”

“I dunno, Lex. It seems to me like you could use a few more ‘O’s in your life, if you know what I mean.”

“Still not interested. Now leave it.”

“So defensive,” Anya says, “could it be because you’ve got your eye on Blondie? Don’t think I didn’t notice your little change of pace this morning.”

“I don’t have my eye on anyone.”

“You sure? Because I know for a fact that you’ve got an hour and a half before your next class, but you hightailed it right out of there as soon as they found out were ready to get back in the saddle. Somebody has you flustered, and if it isn't Blake and you've proven so far to be immune to my charms, that only leaves Clarke.”

“You’re so annoying; I just knew I’d have to get through this conversation and a shower before I could leave.”

“Not sure why you insist on hiding the truth from your best friend in the whole world, but I guess I’ll let it slide. Though I have to say, if you are into Clarke, that’s two blondes in one week, which sounds like a pattern. Glad to see you’re expanding your type.”

Lexa feels herself blushing again, but she resolutely refuses to acknowledge it, or the fact that those “two blondes” were actually both Clarke, until Anya speaks again.

“I mean, if that Clarke girl really isn’t your speed, I’d be happy to take her for a ride.” 

Lexa thinks Anya is kidding, but she never can be sure when it comes to a potential conquest. Lexa is undeniably bothered by the idea of Anya pursuing Clarke, knowing that Finn’s existence, steady or casual, is highly unlikely to deter Anya if she actually thinks she has a chance; still, Lexa has decided not to speak her interest in Clarke into existence. Maybe if Anya catches her eye, or at least acts as a steady buffer, Lexa will be able to get her mind off the blonde. Maybe.

“You do what you have to do, Anya,” Lexa says, even though a single word would be enough to deem Clarke off-limits to Anya. She may be a major player, but Anya’s also a great friend, and would never go after someone Lexa admitted to liking.

“If that’s the way you want to play it,” Anya says ominously, “then maybe I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the wait, but I hope you enjoyed this update. While Clarke and Lexa clearly have a ways to go before they're ~Clarke and Lexa~, it's gonna happen. You want it to happen. I want it to happen. It will happen. 
> 
> Of course, other things are going to happen along the way, but I'm ridiculously excited for all of it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke's friends give her a little advice on her love life and create a plan which might just involve some meddling. Clarke and Wells have to visit home while their friends are gearing up for a wild night out at the Dropship. Some angst, maybe?

“Is this the part where I get to say ‘I told you so’,” Octavia asks, peeking her head out from around the shower curtain to smirk at Clarke, who’s been self-consciously scrubbing her face and rambling about Lexa for entirely too long. Octavia’s hair is almost completely white with shampoo, and suds are streaming down her face, but she keeps her gaze fixed on Clarke.

“This is the part where you return to reality and realize that I probably don’t stand a chance with her since she knows I’m a gross sweat monster who can’t tie her own shoes or run marathons on command.”

“You’re so difficult,” Octavia says, clamping her eyes shut and ducking back behind the curtain, “we both know you think she’s hot, and you haven’t stopped talking about her since she left, so you might as well just admit you like her. It’s a baby step.”

Clarke takes a deep breath and holds while she splashes her face with cool water. She still needs to shower – which she can’t do until Octavia’s done, because, although they may be questionable, _some boundaries_ do definitely exist in their friendship – but at least washing her face keeps her from feeling overwhelmed by the way she keeps talking about Lexa. And the way she keeps thinking about Lexa. She wipes water from her eyes and looks in the mirror at her messy hair and the sports bra she’s stripped down to, considering whether she can do this. _It’s a baby step_. 

She breathes out again, her exhale intentionally loud to make sure Octavia can hear her exasperation.

“Okay,” Clarke says, “even though we didn’t get to talk for long and barely know each other, I think I might like her.”

“Was that so hard?” 

Clarke turns away from the mirror to lean against the counter and allows herself to picture Lexa diligently adjusting her shoelaces, delicate-looking hands flexing in their movements. She thinks of slightly chapped lips curving slowly into a smile and wisps of brown hair escaping Lexa’s headband. It’s easy for Clarke to confess an attraction to the other girl. Hell, she’s got an unfinished, but undoubtedly inspired, sketch to prove it. It’s harder for Clarke to admit she likes her, especially when it’s so unusual for her to like _anyone_ so immediately.

Clarke Griffin is used to attraction; she prides herself on being an artist with a keen eye for aesthetics, after all. But Clarke doesn’t just want to look at Lexa, or touch her, or even kiss her, although all of those things are incredibly appealing. Clarke wants to earn more of those laughs that seem to force Lexa to close her eyes. She wants to unlock every hidden bit of knowledge on running safety and whatever else is inside of Lexa’s brain. She wants to ask Lexa one thousand questions about everything and nothing, and to wait patiently for every single answer. But she’s getting ahead of herself.

“So what if I like her, O? It doesn’t really matter if she doesn’t like me back.”

“From what you’ve told me, it seems like you turned on the old Griffin charm, which is super impressive considering you’re usually a giant grump in the early morning. What’s not to like?”

“I made a few corny jokes and dumb compliments. That’s hardly charming.”

“Are you kidding, Clarke,” Octavia asks, poking her out of the curtain again, this time with translucent blue goop spread on her incredulous face, “you’re such a charmer. I don’t know if you’ve conveniently forgotten that boys and girls have been falling all over you since puberty, or that you literally got laid last night, but I need you to remember what a catch you are.”

“Correction, people have been falling all over my boobs since puberty, O, and so far, she’s managed to keep her footing. Besides, I wouldn’t mind it if she liked me for more than that.”

“Hmm,” Octavia starts, again disappearing into the shower, “so you want her to like you for your smarts and your heart and junk? Sounds like you’ve got it bad, but I still don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about.”

Clarke isn’t so sure. Maybe Lexa isn’t dating the beefcake Clarke saw her with, and maybe the blonde felt _something_ when they spoke to each other, but that doesn’t automatically mean the brunette was feeling it. Especially not when Wells had known her for months, felt a spark, and still been completely wrong.

“Wells is smart, handsome, and kind, and she still wasn’t interested,” Clarke says, doing her best to ignore both the guilt of liking the same person as her oldest friend and the lingering hope that her luck will be better than his.

“He also almost drowned himself in cologne trying to get her attention, which you did in a messy bun and a fleece jacket. _Fleece_ , Clarke. Wells is awesome, but he’s also a boy, which puts a third tally under the ‘gay’ column I’m keeping track of for Lexa.”

“What were the other two,” Clarke asks as Octavia turns off the water a reaches an arm out for the towel she left on the floor beside the tub.

“First, she gives me a vibe, and you know I have to trust my vibes, especially since the boy you saw her with has been confirmed as a non-boyfriend. Second,” Octavia says as she opens the curtain, towel wrapped around her torso and wet hair still dripping, “I saw the way she looked at you, Clarkey. Honestly, if Anya wasn’t already winding up to smack her, I wouldn’t have disturbed your moment.”

“Really,” Clarke asks. For a second, after the conversation died down and before Octavia and Anya arrived, Clarke could’ve sworn they were having a moment. If Octavia witnessed it, then it must’ve been real, right?

“Really,” Octavia confirms. She gently slaps a wet hand onto Clarke’s shoulder while she steps out of the tub, “Lexa could’ve kept the pace just fine this morning, if she wasn’t thinking of you. I’m not saying she’s ready to propose, but you like her and I think she likes you, too. You don’t have to drop your mystery man, or make any big decisions, but at least think about it.”

The conversation effectively ends there, when Octavia lets go of Clarke and opens the door to reveal Wells slumped on the floor next to the bathroom door with a towel thrown over his head. Clarke tries her best to steel herself for a look of disappointment or betrayal from him, since she has no idea how long he’s been sitting there, just on the other side of the paper thin wall. It isn’t that she wants to keep her crush on Lexa from him forever; it just seems inconsiderate to tell him less than twenty-four hours after dashing his hopes of dating the brunette.

She’s also pretty sure that when she does tell Wells, she’ll have to tell him the whole story, right down to the half-finished drawing tucked away in her sketchbook. Clarke is nowhere near ready to deal with all that; not when she should’ve been upfront to begin with.

Clarke hits a lucky break when Wells slowly peels the towel from his head and lifts his eyes.

“No boundaries,” he mumbles, looking from Clarke to Octavia and back again, “do I even want to know what you’re up to now?”

Wells looks like hell. His face, which is usually rich and dark and almost abnormally smooth for a college-age boy, is dry and washed out. His brown eyes are dull and stuck in a squint. He lolls his head back until it rests against the wall. Clarke looks to Octavia, and widens her eyes as subtly as she can, hoping she doesn’t blab to Wells about Lexa.

“Probably not,” Octavia answers simply. She surveys Wells the same way Clarke did and asks, “Did Bell and the fratties help mend your broken heart?”

Clarke rolls her eyes.

“My heart isn’t broken, just my pride,” Wells says. Octavia snorts, wet hair still dripping.

“Did you at least have fun,” Clarke asks, still feeling a little guilty for handing Wells off to the boys in his time of need.

“More fun than my body could handle. I might’ve puked in a gutter.”

“On a Wednesday night,” Octavia says, obviously impressed, “God, not even a month into school and you two are already on a roll. I have to catch up.”

Wells looks at Clarke and she blushes. She hasn’t forgotten about Finn at all, but she has to admit that Lexa’s been monopolizing a lot of her headspace this morning.

“Well? Don’t hold out on me, Griffin,” Wells says. He manages a smile, but it looks more like a grimace around the edges. “On second thought, can you pass me my toothbrush first? I don’t think I can give you my full attention until I get rid of the taste of death and Fireball.”

“Fireball? You really went all out, then,” Clarke says, before ducking back into the bathroom. He groans as she rinses and squirts toothpaste onto his toothbrush. She hands it to him on the floor, then slides down the wall next to him. Octavia ducks into her room to get dressed, then drops to the floor across from them to hear the tail end of Clarke’s encounter with Finn.

Of course, Clarke leaves out a couple key details, like Finn’s name, because the last thing she need is Wells or Octavia sleuthing around after him like she had Wells and Lexa. She also neglects to mention that all this happened at Meadowlark for the same reason, but also because she really doesn’t want to think about seeing Lexa there and then sleeping with Finn in almost the same spot a day later, not that either of them asks for much clarification after finding out that Clarke had sex with a barista she barely knows.

Wells high-fives her for putting herself out there, and tells her he’s glad at least one of the three of them managed to have a good time last night. Octavia does, too, even though she already knew. She also tells Clarke that Raven is sending her an invisible high-five, because Octavia texted her the vaguest of updates on Clarke’s sex life.

Sure enough, when Octavia leaves for class and Wells slips into the shower, because his class is a little earlier than Clarke’s, the blonde finds a text from Raven that says, “Congrats on the sex, Griffmeister” and three eggplant emojis.

This is easy for Clarke. Being attracted to someone like Finn, someone nice and cute and mildly distracting, is easy. Fooling around with someone who takes her mind off a shitty day, but doesn’t ask her about it is easy. Even being teased by her friends about it is easy, because at least they all support her in having safe, harmless fun.

She wants to think that liking Lexa is just as simple, but it isn’t. Finn’s good-looking and charming, but Clarke has seen him regularly for over a year and she doesn’t know the first thing about him; she’s never even been compelled to ask. There’s even a comfort in how easy it is to keep him at arm’s length. Three days of knowing Lexa exists, and Clarke already wants to know everything about the other girl. Not tracking the other girl down on social media, even though they definitely have a mutual friend in Octavia, has taken almost all of Clarke’s self-control. She thinks her friends would all support her if she actually pursued the brunette, but she doesn’t know if Wells would feel like she’d lied to him, or if Octavia would eventually get annoyed with Clarke liking her new teammate.

Clarke isn’t even sure how to go about really liking another person. She’s had tons of crushes, and she’s had whirlwind romances with a handful of girls and boys over the last few years, but none of them stood out all that much, and none of them were anything like Lexa.

It’s all a little intimidating, but Clarke reminds herself of what Octavia said. She’s not making any big decisions yet, not dismissing Finn, not committing herself to Lexa. She’s just thinking things through.

And if getting to know Lexa a little better is a necessary part of thinking things through, then Clarke is looking forward to it.

 

Clarke doesn’t get to see Lexa for the rest of the week. As expected, Octavia comes home from Thursday’s rugby practice with details for her weekend plans with Lexa, Anya, and their friends. Around the same time, Clarke’s mother texts her to impress upon her just how excited she is to have her home for the weekend. She even got cleared her evening of surgeries so she could spend time with Clarke. Clarke still has half a mind to back out, or at least to negotiate her visit down to just Friday night and Saturday morning so she can hit up the Dropship on Saturday night. But then Wells is telling her he got the same excited texts from his dad, as well as a Griffin-Jaha dinner invite from Abby, and he seems happy enough about it that Clarke refuses to spoil it for him.

On Friday afternoon, Clarke finds herself tossing clothes into a duffel bag while Raven lounges on the edge of her bed. The other girl had all but demanded in person updates on both Clarke’s hookup and her crush, and Clarke was trying to be as nonchalant about both as she possibly could be.

“Who knew you were such a player, Griff? This could be some next level pimp shit.”

“Come on, Raven, it’s not like I’m juggling them,” Clarke says, rolling her eyes at the other girl.

“Maybe not, but you’ve got Mr. Mancandy to see to your _needs_ ,” Raven wags her eyebrows at Clarke, “and this Lexa babe, who Octavia tells me is ready to be your baby mama.”

“Please don’t call him Mr. Mancandy,” Clarke cringes as she says it, while Raven rolls casually onto her back, with her arms pillowing her head.

“Wouldn’t have to if you told us his name,” she says, eyes on the ceiling, “No pressure though, I’ll just have to come up with something equally clever and fitting.”

“I look forward to it,” Clarke says, because if anyone will come up with a clever name for a mysterious hookup, it’ll be Raven Reyes, “and nobody is looking to be my baby mama. She probably doesn’t even like me, and I’m still not convinced she’s gay or bi or whatever, despite O’s vibes, or whatever.”

“Where’s the optimism, Griffin? Maybe she doesn’t know you yet, but we can fix that,” the words roll so easily off Raven’s tongue that Clarke just knows the girl is engineering some complex plan fit for a romantic comedy. Especially when she looks off into space for a couple seconds and then smirks deviously.

“Spill it, Reyes. I know something’s going on in that brain of yours.”

Raven sits up and looks at Clarke, her eyes narrow and smile stretching wide.

“Okay, but your instincts are going to tell you to resist everything I have to say. I need you to fight those instincts.”

At the risk of opening herself up to a great deal of embarrassment, and just as much disappointment, Clarke says, “Fine. Tell me.”

And Raven does. By the time Clarke and Wells get on the road to go home, the wheels are already in motion on Raven’s plan. While Clarke and Wells are catching up with their parents, Raven is going to do her best to cut down on some of the uncertainty surrounding Lexa, or at least to get a definitive answer to the whole ‘is Lexa into girls’ question.

Her plan won’t stop there, though. No, Raven is convinced that, if Clarke really wants Lexa to know her, she’s got to put in some serious work. For her part, Clarke is content to let Raven do what she thinks is necessary. Clarke is still avoiding any big decisions, but she really does want to know Lexa better. If fate or coincidence or luck has only brought them together three times in three years at Polaris University, then Clarke’s ready to stop relying on any of those things to work in her favor.

 

By the time Clarke and Wells are pulling up in front of her mother’s house, Abby and Wells’ dad Thelonious are practically sprinting down the driveway to welcome them. Well, Abby is practically sprinting, while Thelonious casually strolls out behind her. Abby catches Wells in a hug first, squeezing him like he’s just come home from war, while Clarke walks into Thelonious’ arms for a much less threatening embrace. Thelonious has already barely released Clarke from their brief hug when Abby snatches her into her arms.

“It’s been too long since you’ve both been home,” Abby says, “you look far too grown up.”

“Can’t breathe, Mom,” Clarke squeaks out, weakly patting at her mother’s back.

“Oh, sorry, sweetheart,” Abby says, finally releasing Clarke, “It’s just so good to have you home.”

“We were just home, Mom,” Clarke says. Even though they had work and classes, she and Wells spared an entire week of their summer to stay in their childhood bedrooms while their parents alternately doted on them and ditched them for their busy work schedules. That was only a month ago.

“You’re our babies. We always miss you.” Abby’s eyes linger softly on Clarke for a few seconds, and then sweep across her face. Clarke tries as hard not to notice the way her mother quickly assesses her as Abby tries to hide it. Clarke is almost certain she looks tired, so she squirms under her mother’s scrutiny. The whole purpose of this visit is to reassure Abby that she doesn’t need to worry about Clarke.

“Give your mother a break, Clarke,” Thelonious says before Clarke can roll her eyes, “we’re boring, old people now, and you two bring back the excitement of youth.”

“You’re such a dad, Dad,” Wells says with a smile, “so are we doing this Griffin-Jaha dinner, or should I go back out for food?”

“Oh, we’re doing this,” Thelonious says, steering Wells toward the Griffin house, “Your old man’s on burger duty, and it’s about time I passed on the tricks of the trade.”

The Jaha men disappear into the house and Abby squeezes Clarke’s shoulder, nudging her gently after them, and says, “I figured I’d leave the cooking to the guys. Less risk of food poisoning that way.”

Clarke laughs, fully aware that her mother is a comically terrible cook. 

“I’ve missed you, too, Mom.”

 

 

Clarke really has missed her mother. After a hard week, it’s nice to spend an evening eating free food that she doesn’t have to make herself with her mom and the Jahas. Clarke doesn’t even mind the barrage of “catch-up” questions Thelonious and Abby fire at her and Wells, although she strategically avoids mentioning her chemistry class. Clarke and Wells both get thinly veiled inquisitions about their love lives, and both of them sidestep those questions with relative ease. Wells drops the old _I’m too busy for romance_ , while Clarke jokes about preferring to be a free agent and then stonily allows her mother's spiel on safe sex.

Abby knows better than to ask Clarke about work, having made it abundantly clear that she thinks Clarke should quit and let her mother cover her bills; however, Thelonious doesn’t, so Clarke politely informs him that she still has a job at a restaurant just off-campus, while leaving off the part about having to pick up random weeknight bartending shifts sometimes just to keep her head above water. The last thing she wants is another lecture from her mother. Well, second to last, since the actual last thing Clarke wants is to have to completely depend on her Abby’s money to live. She appreciates that Abby wants to help, but Clarke needs to be able to take care of herself.

 

 

It’s hours later, after Wells and Thelonious have made their way home, and after Raven and Octavia have cluttered Clarke’s inbox with pictures of the two of them in front of a dressing room mirror in all kinds of club wear and requests for her tie-breaking vote on what each of them should or shouldn’t buy for tomorrow’s outing. Clarke is sprawled on the couch in the den wearing capri leggings and a sweatshirt. The cozy socks she found in her room are only ankle-high, so there’s a little chill on her skin keeping her from falling asleep. Abby is curled into the recliner in similar clothes, watching some TV drama on low. Sometimes, Clarke can feel her mother’s eyes drift to her.

The house is fairly quiet and dimly lit by a couple of floor lamps. Something feels different, but Clarke can’t quite place what it is, or even if it was changed the last time she was home. The walls are still littered with pictures. Her dad smiles at her from odd angles, sometimes in ugly Christmas sweaters or ski gear or just lounging on the same couch Clarke is laying on now. There’s a new accent rug, but Clarke’s seen it before. Just like she’s seen the one new piece of furniture, a recliner Abby bought months ago, that never coexisted in this space with Clarke’s father. She can’t put her finger on it, but Clarke’s sleep-addled brain knows something has changed.

“So, school’s really going okay?” Abby’s voice unexpectedly breaks their silence. Her TV show isn’t over yet, but Abby does this sometimes. She waits until Clarke’s in comfy clothes and recently fed and her eyes are getting heavier, when her phone is tossed aside for a pillow or an armrest. She knows Clarke’s defenses will lower if Abby can just wait her out.

Clarke considers feigning sleep, but she knows Abby’s had an eye on her. Usually, these conversations are a little easier on them both. When something is bothering one or both of them, but they don’t have to look each other in the eye to share it, it’s less likely to end in tears or eye rolling or storm outs or bold-faced denial.

“School’s…school,” Clarke says, “I’m still going to class, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not--” Abby trails off before she can say “worried”, which only confirms Clarke’s suspicion, “look, sweetheart, you just sounded a little off when we spoke on the phone, and I need to know that you’re okay. If school and work are too much—”

“I’m not quitting my job, Mom.”

“I figured you’d say that.”

“Look, it was just a bad day, okay? I didn’t do as well on a test as I would’ve liked, and then the card thing happened and I freaked out a little. I know I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I’m sorry.” Clarke is still spread across the couch, resolutely refusing to raise her head enough to look her mother in the eye.

“Are you sure that’s all, Clarke?”

Abby’s strategy is clearly working, because Clarke’s brain is screaming at her to unload about Finn and Lexa and the uncertainty surrounding both of them in her life. She wants to admit that she feels guilty about not being honest with Wells, about not being the one to take him out, get him drunk, and get him over his crush. She wants to admit that, even though she feels kind of guilty, she doesn’t know if she should. She wants to tell her mom that she’s still resenting Raven for her doing so well on her test, and that she’s jealous of Octavia for having a reason to spend time with Lexa, even though Raven and Octavia are firmly trying to give her an advantage on that front. And Clarke wants to honestly say just how exhausting her first weeks of junior year have been; how her classes expect so much more work and time than they ever have before; how her serving shifts have had flexible hours, but routinely shitty tips, and the occasional weeknight bartending tips aren’t always much better.

What comes out though, is, “I really miss Dad. All week, I just wanted to talk to him.”

“Oh, Clarke,” her mother says with a sigh, “you should’ve told me. You didn’t have to be alone with this.”

Abby doesn’t reach out to touch her, and Clarke is grateful. Tears well in her eyes, and Clarke is sure they’ll break free the second her mother touches her. Clarke and Abby aren’t like the Gilmore Girls. They don’t always communicate easily. Sometimes, sharing things with her mother is incredibly difficult for Clarke, and she knows it’s hard for Abby to share, too. It’s almost funny, but in this moment, Clarke wants her dad back even more. Jake Griffin was the easiest man in the world to talk to. He was such a good buffer that Clarke and Abby barely noticed how much they needed him until he was gone.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke says again, “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“I miss him, too. Every day,” her mother says quietly.

Clarke raises her eyes to look at her mother, who’s already crying, and it hits her, the thing that’s changed. Instead of her dad’s old throw blanket, the red and gold one with the logo of his favorite soccer team that’s been draped on the chair for years, there’s an ugly green blanket splayed across Abby’s lap. There’s a football on it, but Abby hates football. Clarke feels startled, but she’s afraid to ask. Her dad’s been gone for more than four years, but Clarke can’t imagine her mother with anyone else. And there has to be someone else, if her father’s throw blanket has been replaced by something that technically clashes less with the color scheme, but also probably doesn’t appeal to Abby.

She swallows the question in her throat and picks herself up off the couch to pull her mother into a hug. It’s less awkward than she fears, to have her mom quietly sniffling into her hair. When her tears spill onto Abby’s shoulder, Clarke feels like a little girl again. Like she’s small enough to curl into her mother’s lap and hide there until she feels better. A tight, teary hug is the next best thing, and Clarke clings to Abby with everything she has until they’re both cried out and too tired to stay up.

 

 

Abby is true to her word, and she spends the entire day with Clarke without constantly checking her phone or her pager. Neither of them formally brings up the night before, but Abby wakes Clarke up with fresh coffee and her favorite sugary cereal and then proposes a short drive out to visit Jake. They take turns, laying down the flowers they picked out for him and talking to his headstone. Clarke reads him soccer stats, because she thinks he’d want to be updated. It feels nice, talking to him when he’s kind of right in front of her. It feels like he can hear her.

When they leave the cemetery, they go get pedicures and have lunch at a little bistro that Abby’s fond of, and pick up the few groceries they’ll need to pull something together without ordering takeout. Then Abby lets Clarke teach her how to bake banana walnut bread from scratch, and it only gets a little burned, since Clarke is ever-so-slightly less helpless in the kitchen than her mother. Abby even impresses Clarke by helping her brainstorm ideas for the couple of papers she has to write.

Clarke notices some changes here and there: a pair of men’s boots on the mat in the garage; an extra toothbrush in the master bedroom; more than a box of coffee and a jar of peanut butter in the cabinets even before shopping. She takes it all in stride, and it never feels as uncomfortable as it does surprising. She tries to make her peace with it, so that when Abby eventually tells Clarke she can be happy for her. Clarke doesn’t remember why she was dreading this visit; it’s the best time she’s had with her mother in a while.

It’s around nine when texts and Snapchats from Octavia start flooding in again. She’s getting all dressed up for the Dropship, and pre-gaming pretty effectively if the rapidly emptying bottle of cheap vodka she keeps snapping pictures of is any indication. Bellamy, Murphy, and Miller are all with her, so Clarke is fully prepared for a repeat of Wells’ gutter incident. When Octavia snaps a discreet picture of Lexa, looking approximately one hundred degrees hotter than should be allowed, Clarke remembers why she was dreading this visit.

Raven’s plan is about to commence, for better or worse, and Clarke is sure she’ll be updated every step of the way. She gets comfortable with her books in her mom’s small office and sets her phone to vibrate.

She doesn’t want to miss a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been longer than I anticipated since my last update, but life is hard and writing is hard. If all goes according to plan, the next chapter should be up in two weeks or less. I'm really excited for what's going to happen in chapter 12, and I hope you are too. As always, let me know if you see any egregious typos/missing words (please and thank you).


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa and the gang head to the Dropship for a night of drunken debauchery. Raven's master plan to help Clarke learn about Lexa is kicking into gear, but so is Anya's plan to help Lexa (and Lincoln) get back into the "dating game".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By now, you've probably realized I'm far better at setting deadlines than meeting them. I'm working on it. Hopefully this slightly longer than usual chapter will make up for the wait.
> 
> As always, feel free to let me know if you see any particularly horrible typos. I was very excited to get this chapter out and I didn't really do my best proofreading.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with this story. I really do appreciate you guys.
> 
> I'll leave you with some great stuff I learned in college: 1) Liquor before beer, you're in the clear; 2) beer before liquor, and you'll never be sicker; 3) vodka is the devil; 4) your real friends will forgive you for puking in their sink as long as you apologize; 5) consent is sexy, and also necessary. $100,000 later and that's all I got.
> 
> Happy (belated) Halloween!

Lexa carefully examines the glass in her hand. She holds it to the light, marveling at the innocuously clear liquid that she’s supposed to be downing. It’s as transparent as water, and seems at first to smell almost sickly sweet. Of course, upon more careful inspection, the smell gives way to the sharp sting of alcohol. Lexa tries to mentally prepare herself. Nyko is already grimacing and pouring himself another shot while Anya coaches Lincoln into knocking his first shot back. As soon as Lincoln gets it down, he sputters and gags, and Nyko just laughs before passing him the open two-liter. Lincoln takes a long swig of root beer and gags again.

“That did not taste anything like a cupcake,” Lincoln says accusingly. Lexa isn’t surprised. Nyko and Anya have been biting back secretive smiles since they walked in the door.

“One, it’s called a cake float, and two, you have to chase it faster for the full effect,” Anya says, smirking at Nyko, “you’ll like the next one better.”

Lexa and Lincoln had left Anya in charge of getting alcohol for the night since it was entirely her plan, and she came home with a cheap bottle of cake-flavored vodka. Lexa isn’t sure what she was expecting, but she knows enough to doubt Lincoln will like the next one any more than the last.

“You let a few of those shots kick in, and you’ll forget what it tastes like,” Nyko says as he pours himself another, “Trust me.”

Lincoln looks across the kitchen at Lexa and frowns dramatically. At least Nyko brought four boxes of pizza, which just might be enough to soak up however much vodka it’ll take to numb their ability to taste without leaving them too trashed to make it to the Dropship. If they’re lucky.

“Don’t think we’ve forgotten about you, Lex,” Anya says, turning her attention from Lincoln. She leans casually back against the counter and says, “That shot isn’t going to take itself.”

“It really isn’t as bad as he made it out to be,” Nyko offers.

“Come on, Woods,” Anya says, not budging from her spot against the counter, “all your friends are doing it.”

Lincoln is still smacking his lips disdainfully.

“Wow, An, why don’t you all lead me off a bridge, while you’re at it,” Lexa responds.

Anya huffs out a big breath and crosses her arms.

“I thought you made your peace with going out tonight.”

“That was before there was cake-flavored vodka involved.”

Another huff, but Anya drops her arms and says, “Look, I get it. You’re nervous. I would be, too, if I was into that whole long-term relationship thing. Hell, Lincoln’s nervous. It isn’t the vodka that’s bugging you, Lexa, it’s the fact that you’re about to finally, _finally_ , start moving on with your life. That’s fucking hard. And your stubborn ass won’t admit it. So? Don’t admit it, then. But don’t let it stop you.”

Lexa wishes she could tell Anya she’s wrong. 

“If you don’t want a shot, you don’t have to take it, even though we both know you’ll be hitting the bar and blowing through cash on those nasty long islands you like at the first sign of a pretty girl if you show up sober. Just, for the sake of your poor, neglected—” Anya breaks off and raises her eyebrows pointedly because nobody in the room needs her to elaborate on which parts of Lexa have been _neglected_ lately, while Nyko tries to suppress a snicker— “body and my sanity. You deserve to have fun. Hot, naked, sweaty fun with a girl who isn’t Costia.”

“I hate it when you meddle in my love life,” Lexa says weakly, even though Anya rarely meddles, “even more when you start making sense.”

Anya shrugs noncommittally, and says, “Somebody has to set you straight. Or whatever.”

Lexa rolls her eyes, takes a breath, and downs her shot. She doesn’t make a move for the root beer. She can’t quite keep the grimace off her face, but still fares much better than Lincoln. The burn eases its way down her throat and she allows Anya to pry the glass out of her hand and place it next to Lincoln’s.

Nyko’s eyes go wide for a second, clearly expecting Lexa to gag, but he scales back his expression and gives Lexa a small nod.

Lexa ignores Anya’s murmured “good girl”.

“Just have to show me up, don’t you,” Lincoln says through a small smile that falters when Anya starts refilling their empty glasses.

It isn’t like Lexa has never had alcohol before. She’s tried vodka plenty of times, mostly when she was a gangly freshman with ample free time, desperately trying to keep up with Costia’s slightly older friends, but also a handful of times with Anya and Lincoln and whichever of their friends were willing to join them in nursing hard liquor and playing silly drinking games in their dorm rooms.

Of course, almost all those times, Lexa was among friends and dating Costia. She’s had plenty of alcohol, but never while also psyching herself up to meet strange girls.

“Every once in a while, you make me proud,” Anya says, eyes trained on the glasses. Lexa knows she isn’t just talking about the shot. She fills them both to the brim, scoots them back toward Lexa and Lincoln, then takes a pull from the bottle. “Drink up, kids. We have a long night ahead of us.”

Lexa bites back the urge to protest, and Lincoln does the same. Neither of them wants to show up completely sober to the Dropship. A little liquid courage might be the only thing that gets them through this. They swallow down the next few shots Anya shoves in front of them without complaint, and Lexa stubbornly refuses to chase them with root beer, not that any of her friends would seriously think less of her if she did.

After they’ve all had a few shots, Anya forces Lexa to change into different outfits, then model them for the group. Lexa would be more annoyed if Anya didn’t make both boys bring at least three outfits to do the exact same thing. They all pretend to vote on what the others should wear, but the three of them still end up deferring to Anya’s choices. For Lexa, that means slipping on her tightest pair of distressed jeans—the black ones that Anya sometimes borrows without asking—plus a sheer, sleeveless green top over a black bra, and motorcycle boots.

Lexa pulls her hair back into a single, neat fishtail braid, which Anya promptly tousles and tugs at until it’s messy enough to release a few curls. She even allows Lincoln to pencil on dramatic winged eyeliner—which Anya makes him do because he has the steadiest hand and because Lexa always complains that Anya goes overboard when she isn’t drawing on her own face. After all this, Lexa looks good. _Damn good_ , if her friends’ reactions are to be trusted.

Before she knows it, it’s after ten, and Lexa is buzzed. Her head feels all floaty, and her cheeks and nose are a little tingly, but she thinks it’s a good thing. She and Nyko are giggling on the couch about something that happened in high school, completely ignoring Lincoln’s loud objections to their recollection, and everything is just a little funnier than usual. They’ve moved their party from the kitchen to the living room, all of them but Anya, since she’s changing her outfit for the third time to avoid “upstaging” the others. They’re seriously debating grabbing a yearbook to prove to Lincoln that the “beard” he grew in high school only covered about a fourth of his chin when they hear a knock. Lexa feels every drop of vodka swirling in her bloodstream when she stands too quickly to answer the door.

On the other side, Octavia is waiting with two guys, and she looks downright dangerous in all black, especially with knee high boots starting miles below tiny, black shorts. Lexa meant it when she said she wasn’t interested in her new teammate, but she can appreciate the view. One of the boys, the tall one with freckles and rebellious curls struggling free from shiny hair gel, smiles politely; the other boy, who has a mop of brown hair and shifty eyes, clearly looks Lexa up and down in such a way that she considers asking Anya to wave a rainbow flag around her, just in case he gets any funny ideas.

“Hot damn, Lexa,” Octavia says, as she looks Lexa up and down just like the brown-haired boy behind her. Lexa feels her cheeks flush and stands aside to let them in, hoping the greeting falls into the “friendly appreciation” category instead of the “friend who wants to bone you” category.

Despite the alcohol, Lexa manages to swallow her disappointment at not seeing Clarke in the group.

Lexa and Octavia make introductions as the newcomers fill into spaces on the couches. Lexa is relieved when Octavia drops onto the edge of the couch next to Lincoln, who is already feeling uninhibited enough to offer her an uncharacteristically big smile and his hand. The one who checked Lexa out is called Murphy, and when he winks at her, Lexa doesn’t stop glaring at him until he finds something else to look at. And then there’s Bellamy, Octavia’s brother; Lexa appreciates him if only because he seems nice enough and doesn’t leer at her.

“The others should be here any minute,” Octavia says, and Lexa bites the inside of her cheek to keep her smile hidden. “Others” might include Clarke, who Lexa wants to see tonight. In a friend way. Well, if “others” doesn’t also include Finn. Lexa does not need to see her new friend Clarke draped all over Finn tonight.

It isn’t long before there’s another knock on the door. This time, it’s Octavia who springs up to answer it. Lincoln’s eyes follow her all the way to the door, but Lexa can’t give him a hard time over it when Octavia’s brother is happily chatting on the other side of the boy. As soon as she opens the door, Octavia steps aside to let in three more strangers. Well, one of the boys seems vaguely familiar to Lexa, but none of the three are blonde. None of them are Clarke.

Again, Lexa swallows down disappointment.

The other girl is wide-eyed and beautiful, and the lacy black bralette she wears tapers off just above her navel in a way that might be endlessly fascinating and almost hypnotizing to Lexa, especially after several shots of vodka and nine months of celibacy, if not for the fact that the girl is Octavia’s friend, and very likely Clarke’s. Something about it seems just a little too messy to entertain. Especially since Anya chooses that moment to make her grand entrance, in a black V-neck, grey skinny jeans, and boots—apparently, the only outfit she doesn’t think she’ll show the others up in—and her eyes linger on the new girl longer than anyone else. Not even out of her room for thirty seconds, and the girl has a new conquest.

The boy who seems familiar is Asian and smiling gently despite clearly being used as a support pedestal by the giggling black guy with scruffy facial hair next to him. It’s almost like the two of them don’t realize at first the door is open and seven pairs of eyes are trained on them; when the moment passes, they break apart, but the scruffy one is still laughing. 

The new arrivals are introduced as Raven, Monty, and Miller, respectively. Lexa realizes she knows Monty from some math class they both hated freshmen year, one in which they never really spoke, but the mutual suffering makes for an easy talking point. By now, the small living room is majorly crowded, but it’s surprisingly comfortable. Anya, Monty and Miller don’t gripe about having to grab spots on the floor, and Raven slyly wedges herself between Octavia and the arm of the couch, which pushes the girl even closer to Lincoln, not that either of them are complaining.

Raven and Octavia are whispering conspiratorially to each other, and Lexa hears something that sounds suspiciously like “Holy abs” from Raven. She’s very aware that, of everyone in the room, she’s the only one other than Raven whose abs are on display.

Everyone gets along well, especially when Miller offers up the nearly full bottle of tequila he brought along to share.

“So, where’s Blondie,” Anya finally asks as the group is playing a drinking game, probably the last before they leave for the Dropship. Lexa looks to Octavia, who looks at Raven before answering.

“She went home for the weekend, but is super jealous of us all.”

“We didn’t scare her off, did we,” Anya asks, her eyes focusing on Raven this time, “we’re not always about the running, you know?”

“Clarke went running,” Bellamy asks his sister, “like, on purpose?”

“Clarke Griffin,” Miller clarifies before bursting into his loudest fit of laughter yet.

“In the _early_ morning, too,” Raven adds, just as amused as the boys.

“You didn’t scare her off,” Octavia says, “and who knows, maybe she’ll run with us again sometime.”

Raven snorts and looks at Octavia.

“We have officially entered the Twilight Zone,” Bellamy says.

“Stranger things have happened,” Octavia says.

“Name one.” Bellamy looks at her expectantly and she rolls her eyes.

“She did say she wants at least a few good pictures from tonight,” Raven says seriously.

“Oh yeah,” Octavia agrees, “something about living through us.”

“We’ll have to take a picture, then,” Anya says, “but only if she’ll send one back. It’s only fair, right. She gets the party vibes and we get the comfy-at-home vibes.”

“Deal,” Octavia says, with a grin. Lexa will never understand how Anya can make eyes at one girl and use a flirty tone with another while talking about a third girl without looking like an idiot.

Before the group walks out the door, they get a couple selfies of the whole group, none that manage to get all ten people without cutting at least one forehead or chin off, a few of just the four girls, and the smaller friend groups.

Clarke sends back a picture of herself pouting next to an open laptop and a messy stack of books. Even with the comically deep frown and her eyebrows pinched tightly, she’s adorable. Her blonde hair is unkempt and piled high on her head, and her eyelashes are so long, and the way her lower lip juts out is so…adorable. Lexa just smiles. She can’t trust herself with a verbal response, not with Anya watching her reaction like a hawk.

Octavia shows the picture to everyone, even Lincoln and Nyko, and Lincoln’s eyes narrow when he recognizes that this isn’t the first time he’s laid eyes on Clarke. At least Lincoln has the sense not to mention anything that might give Anya the ammunition to embarrass Lexa later.

Lexa knows she’ll get an earful later. 

_Later_ turns out to be less than a minute after walking into the Dropship. As soon as they’re both through the door, Lincoln turns to the rest of the group and says he and Lexa will get a round of beers for anybody willing to settle for whatever’s cheapest. He’s met with no resistance, since everybody is happy to accept a free beer. Their group splits off in different directions, some of them making a beeline for the overcrowded dance floor and some scouting out booths, and Lexa’s glad the place is big enough for a good time, but not so big she won’t be able to find them again. It’s one of the big draws of the Dropship; the others are the proximity to campus, the cheap, if a little watery, drinks, and the fact that the bouncers almost never check IDs.

So, coffee shop girl is your new friend,” Lincoln asks after the bartender starts their order.

"Clarke,” Lexa says, “she’s Octavia’s roommate."

“And she just so happened to run with you guys?"

“Lots of people run, Lincoln."

“Doesn’t seem like her friends think she’s much of a runner.” Lincoln leans on the bar so he’s closer to Lexa’s eye level.

“I, uh, kind of invited her,” Lexa admits, hoping the dim lighting is enough to hide the flush in her cheeks. Lincoln smiles and hums somewhat to himself. Lexa almost feels it in the air more than she hears it over the thumping of the music. The bartender slips the first couple glasses in front of them.

“How’d that happen?”

“Anya and I were supposed to stop by Octavia’s place before we hit the trail, but when we rang the bell, Clarke came to the door.”

“What a coincidence,” Lincoln mumbles distractedly as the bartender slides him another glass. He pauses for a few seconds, and Lexa isn’t sure whether to fill the silence of their little bubble of space, but then he adds, “so you just asked her to tag along? First thing in the morning?”

“Seemed like a good idea.”

“Because you didn’t want to leave her out, or because you think she’s cute?”

“Shut up, Linc,” Lexa says, but without any malice. A couple more glasses appear in front of her.

“That girl ran into a door trying to look at you, Lexa. I’m pretty sure she likes your face, too.”

“Whatever."

“Is she nice? Like, did you two hit it off? Her friends seem nice.” He says it a little wistfully, as the bartender slides the seventh and eighth beer in front of them and they both finally realize they can’t carry ten beers with four hands.

“Her friends? Or _Octavia_?"

“All her friends seem nice, but nice try changing the subject, Lexa.”

“Fine, she’s nice. And smart.” Lexa takes a sip of the beer nearest to her.

“So you met a nice, smart girl, who you think is cute? Okay.”

“Just ‘okay’?” The bartender slides the last two beers in front of them and Lincoln fishes a wad of cash from his back pocket while Lexa does the same. They each wordlessly fork over half the total, plus a few bucks each in tip money and thank the bartender.

“Yeah, okay. I know you don’t want to date anybody right now, and you don’t have to. No pressure. I won’t even tell Anya unless you want me to.”

“Don’t tell Anya,” Lexa says, “she already thinks I’m into Clarke.”

“Aren’t you, though?”

“I’m not into anyone, Lincoln. Single-life, remember? Even if that means Anya hitting on Clarke just to annoy me.”

“You know Anya wouldn’t go near her if she knew you were actually into Clarke, right?”

“No pressure, remember?”

Lincoln holds up his hands in mock surrender and says, “No pressure, but you’re kind of into her. Or you would be if you didn’t want to not be.”

“No more liquor for you. That made zero sense.”

“It made perfect sense, but no liquor for you either. I don’t want to see you breaking out your most embarrassing middle school dance moves or puking on some strange, non-Clarke girl.”

“Like I would be the one to pull out middle school moves at a club.”

“You two better not be planning your escape,” Anya’s voice cuts in before Lexa and Lincoln can steer their conversation back to Clarke. She and Nyko wedge themselves on either side of Lexa and Lincoln and start grabbing beers, “the night is young and neither of you have met a single girl.”

“The night is young,” Lexa repeats, just as Lincoln says, “we’re getting psyched up.”

“Excellent,” Nyko says. He and Anya lead Lincoln and Lexa to the booth where Raven and Monty are waiting.

There’s an impromptu toast, and then Anya is dragging Lincoln, Raven, and Monty and their drinks to the dance floor. The only reason Lexa gets a pass is because she and Nyko are guarding the remaining drinks, and because she still needs a few minutes to collect herself before approaching whichever vaguely gay woman Anya scopes out for her.

She and Nyko barely talk before a girl across the room catches his eye, and he’s ditching Lexa to talk to her. Not even a full minute after Nyko’s gone, Murphy slides into the booth next to her. Lexa glares at Nyko’s back across the room, but Murphy doesn’t seem to notice.

“You seem like you could use some company,” he says, obviously leaning into her space under the guise of trying to be heard over the music.

“I had some, actually,” Lexa responds, “Nyko just stepped away for a second.”

She hopes it was just a second, but bets she’s wrong.

“Looks like he’s a little pre-occupied,” Murphy observes, “which is crazy, if you ask me.”

Lexa doesn’t respond.

“What kind of guy walks away from a girl like you to chat up somebody else?”

She couldn’t wipe the look of disgust of her face if she tried.

“A fool,” Murphy says, “that’s the only kind I can think of.”

“How considerate of you,” Lexa says drolly. She wants to tell him to fuck-off, but she doesn’t want to offend Octavia.

“I’ve been told I’m a pretty considerate guy,” he takes a swig of one of the untouched beers, “in fact, I’ve been considering me and you, and— ”

“Nope,” Lexa says abruptly, “not going to happen.”

To her relief, Murphy shrugs and says, “Fair enough,” then drains the rest of his beer and slides out of the booth and back to the dance floor.

 _Yikes_ , Lexa thinks, as the boy dances away. She barely has a moment to recover from her discomfort when Miller shows up and takes the exact same spot. He’s finally gotten his giggles under control, and, for that, Lexa’s grateful. He’s a decently funny guy, but his laugh makes her feel like she’s in grade school again.

“Taking a break,” he asks.

“Just keeping an eye on the drinks,” Lexa says.

“Oh, damn, that’s really nice. Good to know I’m not about to be roofied.”

He says and then pauses, as though waiting for Lexa to laugh.

“That’s not funny,” she says, feeling slightly affronted and completely prepared to jump into a lecture about the valid concerns she and many other women have about drinking outside of their own homes, but he seems to sense it.

“Shit, sorry, you’re right,” he admits, scratching a spot behind his ear, “but I do know a good joke.”

Lexa grimaces and takes a breath.

“Really,” he says, “it’s funny, and not at all insensitive. Just good clean joke fun.”

“Well?”

“What do you call a cow with no legs?” Miller smiles, and Lexa knows he’s going laugh his ass off at his joke. She finishes her beer and tries to keep enjoying her buzz.

“I don’t know."

“Ground beef,” he says, and Lexa actually laughs far harder than she expects. She doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction, but she can’t quite hold it back.

“Just wait until you hear the one about the magician,” Miller says.

Lexa immediately blanches, considering all the ways this joke could go wrong, or worse, lead to more jokes.

“Maybe we should leave it at ground beef,” she says, “finish with your strongest material.”

“Oh, I always fini— ”

“Stop,” Lexa says, and she holds her hand up firmly.

“Too crass?”

“Borderline vomit-inducing,” she says.

“I tried,” Miller says with a shrug, and then he finishes his beer and slides out of the booth toward the dance floor, just like Murphy had. Lexa swears he's holding back another giggle.

Nyko is pressed up against the girl he’d left to talk to, and Anya is out dancing awfully close to Raven. God only knows where Lincoln is. Lexa’s about to finish another of these beers and then abandon the rest when Bellamy slides into the booth. At least he slides into the other end, so there’s plenty of space between them. Even more of his curls have escaped the slick mess on his head, and he’s noticeably sweaty.

He reaches for a beer, and takes a long gulp.

“Thanks for buying these,” he says simply, “next round’ll be on me.”

“Okay,” Lexa says. Again, she doesn’t want to be rude, but if this guy hits on her too, she’s bolting.

“I have to admit, I was a little scared when Octavia told me she was getting into rugby,” he starts, “I mean, not scared, but concerned, you know? She’s my little sister.”

“A lot of people who don’t know how to play think it’s a dangerous sport.”

“Yeah,” he drags a hand through his hair, “it was just a little surprising. I’m glad I met you though, you and Anya. Makes it easier to believe she’ll be okay.”

“She’ll be fine,” Lexa says, thrilled to be finally having a normal conversation, “we’ll teach her everything she needs to know.”

“Good,” he says, and they both take long drinks. “So, I hear you’re in arts and sciences?”

Lexa isn’t sure how he knows which college she’s in, but says, “Yeah, English and poli-sci.”

“Nice. I’m an English minor,” he says through his almost too boyish smile, “and a history major.”

From there, it’s pretty easy to figure out the handful of things they have in common, and Lexa can see herself being friends with Bellamy. After a few minutes, when she’s lulled into a sense of false security, Bellamy says, “I’ll bet you hear this all the time, but you have beautiful eyes.”

Lexa is so disappointed, because now she has officially found a reason to dislike every boy Octavia brought along except Monty. So much for all these potential new friendships.

“You seem like a really nice guy, but I’m really not interested,” Lexa says, “and I’m also very gay.”

Bellamy’s eyes widen comically and he says, “Good, I mean, that’s good for you. Please forget I said anything.”

Good? That’s the strangest response Lexa has ever gotten, but at least she figures he’ll tell his friends and save her any future annoyances.

“Really, Lexa, forget I said anything,” he says, “but we should still totally go to that lecture next week, as platonic friends, because none of my other friends like school. I mean, they go to school, but they hate being dragged to lectures.”

Lincoln, Anya, and Nyko also hate being dragged to lectures, and it would be nice not having to go alone.

“I, uh, we’ll see,” Lexa says, reaching for one of the last beers and narrowing her eyes slightly at Bellamy, who seems to have dropped all flirtatiousness from his demeanor in just a few seconds.

“Hey, Lexa, come dance,” Lincoln finally reemerges from the throng and stretches out a hand. Octavia is at his side.

“You too, Bell,” she says, after snatching up Lexa’s second beer and downing it with one finger up.

“Let’s get out there,” Bellamy says to Lexa, and they allow Lincoln and Octavia to pull them up and out into the crowd.

Lexa is guided to a section of the floor where most of her friends are gathered. Nyko is nowhere to be seen, and neither are Miller and Monty. Murphy is basically one-man moshing a few feet away, throwing his limbs around randomly and vaguely threateningly, but he’s somehow got the attention of a girl who seems fascinated by him. Lincoln and Octavia are unsurprisingly melded together; Lexa reminds herself to drop an “I told you so” tomorrow. Bellamy looks a little green when he sees his sister, but, to his credit, he just gravitates away ends up finding a dance partner of his own. Raven and Anya have a healthier amount of distance between them now, and it increases even more when Raven tugs Lexa by the wrist until she’s between them.

“I heard you have a quota to fill,” Raven says.

“Quota?”

“Anya tells me you promised to find a few dance partners before the night is over.”

“Oh, uh, yeah.” Maybe drinking from that second beer wasn’t the best idea. Lexa’s cheeks are absolutely on fire. She blames the alcohol.

“Raven’s your warm up,” Anya says, “in case you’re rusty.”

Lexa turns to glare at Anya. “Why?”

“She’s a pretty girl with no dance partner, Lexa. Just like you.”

“And what about you?”

“I took her for a test drive,” Anya says, and Lexa winces when she considers that Raven is perfectly capable of hearing them, but Anya leans in closer and adds, “don’t worry about her leg. She’s a good dancer, and you could both use a confidence boost. Just dance, Lex. You remember how to dance, right?”

Lexa rolls her eyes and looks at Raven, who waits expectantly.

“Wanna dance,” Lexa asks.

“Thought you’d never ask,” Raven smirks.

Lexa steps closer to Raven, as the other girl turns her back to her. It’s a little awkward when Raven guides Lexa’s hands to her hips; Lexa is borderline petrified about crossing some unestablished boundary with the girl she met only hours ago, but eventually they find their rhythm. Anya’s right: Raven has such a feel for the music, even if there is a little stiffness in her movements. Her hips sway in perfect time, even when her feet, or at least one of them seems to struggle to keep up. Lexa follows her lead and slowly, but surely, finds herself getting more comfortable.

They’re a few songs in, and Lexa’s at the most perfect level of drunk. She’s comfortable and enjoying the music. And she isn’t even anxious about the centimeter of each thumb that’s just grazing the warm skin of Raven’s hips. She isn’t stressing about the girls she might meet or the boys she’s spent part of the night turning down. Instead, Lexa is just enjoying the moment.

“This isn’t so bad, is it,” Raven says over her shoulder.

“Shut up,” Lexa says with a laugh, “it’s been a while.”

“You’re doing great,” Raven says, “maybe even good enough to level up.”

“Level up?”

“I’m gonna go rest my legs for a bit, but you should definitely ask somebody else to dance. You’re good at it.”

“You sure,” Lexa asks, even though she’s pretty sure Raven’s leg injury, or whatever it is, is becoming a little more pronounced the longer she moves.

“Positive, lady killer. Too bad Clarke’s not here, though. She’d rock your rhythm world with her dancing.”

With that, Raven retreats to a booth, a different one, since they all abandoned theirs.

Lexa’s friends are still scattered around her, and she refuses to let her confidence falter. Anya is still close by, allowing some guy in an ugly sweater to grind on her even though she looks mildly unimpressed. Anya holds up a thumb and raises her eyebrows, and Lexa nods. She can do this. 

It takes a lot less time than Lexa expects to find someone. The other girl has dirty blonde hair and dark eyes, and neither of those things should remind Lexa of Clarke, but they sort of do. The girl tracks Lexa’s movements as she approaches, and she seems to take a deep breath before Lexa gets too close. And Lexa remembers how this feels. 

She remembers what it feels like to make a move that is absolutely welcomed. She remembers what it’s like to feel a mutual attraction, something that doesn’t come with any implied commitment or any sort of interference from her friends. And a little part of her wishes she wouldn’t have waited so long.  
The girl says her name is Harper, and Lexa tells her it’s a good name, and somehow she overcomes the immediate anxiety about being just as predictable as all of Octavia’s guy friends, and asks Harper to dance. 

By now, Lexa’s friends are far more spread out. She sees some of them at the bar, Monty and Miller throwing back shots with Nyko and his conquest for the night. Murphy’s mosh pit has been upgraded to a two-person endeavor, as the girl who watched him earlier is now raging beside him. No sign of Lincoln or either Blake, this time. Not that Lexa expected to see them. The only real surprise is Anya sitting with Raven in the booth. Anya’s not usually the “sit and chat” type, at least not with people she plans on sleeping with. It’s such a strange sight that Lexa has to look away. Instead, she focuses on the blonde in front of her. 

It’s as easy to lose herself to the rhythm with Harper as it was with Raven. Lexa really does enjoy dancing, after all. But Harper pulls Lexa’s hands a little tighter to her body, and even if the other girl has a bit less natural rhythm than Raven, Harper’s a lot more insistent in the way she presses into Lexa, until the brunette’s breasts are snug against a strong back. 

Lexa swallows a little harder when she feels the firmness of Harper’s ass against her, deliberately moving a bit slower than the music. She allows her hands to dance over the girl’s hipbones. Lexa almost loses her breath when the blonde turns in her arms and links her arms over her shoulders. Harper steps one leg between Lexa’s and uses her hold on the brunette’s neck to pull her closer.

Lexa can feel Harper’s breath on her face. She can smell the hint of alcohol. Rum, if she isn’t mistaken. Harper’s eyes are firmly locked on Lexa’s lips, and Lexa feels the other girl’s heart rate pick up when she pulls her lower lip between her teeth.

Lexa doesn’t know Harper’s major or her last name or her favorite color, but she knows she likes having a pretty girl this close to her face. She also knows how much she’d like to narrow the gap even further.

So that’s exactly what she does.

Lexa’s kisses Harper, the first person she’s kissed since Costia, and it’s so strange. Not bad, but strange. There are a million things Lexa remembers about being with Costia. There are so many things she spent years of her life learning, studying even. And this kiss is so wildly different.

It’s exactly what Lexa didn’t know she needed. This feeling, this rush of excitement and uncertainty and novelty that comes with kissing somebody new makes her feel free. She’s capable of enjoying someone else without giving her heart up and it makes her feel safe.

She isn’t sure how long they stand together, doing a hell of a lot more kissing than dancing, but Lexa eventually registers the sounds of the DJ calling out a five-minute warning before the place shuts down for the night.

Her face is still warm and her body’s on fire, but this is the most sober Lexa’s felt all night.

Harper pulls away and Lexa prepares herself for disappointment, but also to school that disappointment before she can make Harper feel badly if she’s about to put a stop to this. Harper isn’t putting a stop to it, though. Instead, she whispers an invitation back to her apartment in Lexa’s ear. Lexa accepts.

She doesn’t hold Harper’s hand when they walk over to the table so Lexa can say goodbye to Anya, who’s rounding up the troops. Anya promises to get the others home safely, and Lincoln and Octavia appear out of nowhere seemingly in full control of their mental faculties, so Lexa leaves them to it.

As they walk out of the Dropship, Harper huddles into Lexa for warmth and the brunette slings an arm around her. She catches sight of Raven, Monty, and Miller outside. The boys have both clearly seen better days. Miller is throwing up just a few feet from the door, and Raven is rubbing his back. Meanwhile, Monty is crying and saying, “just let it out, man” over and over in a hushed voice.

Lexa doesn’t want to send Harper home alone, but she has to ask.

“You guys okay?”

Raven smiles easily and says, “You should’ve seen this one on his last birthday. This is nothing compared to that.”

“I can stay if you need,” Lexa offers, “Anya’s walking everybody else home, but I’m probably good to drive them if I need to.”

“No need,” Raven says, “our ride is here.”

Sure enough, a small truck pulls up to the curb outside of the club.

“A little help here, Collins,” Raven calls out to the driver. The driver’s side opens, and a guy gets out.

“I’m on it,” he responds, and runs a hand through shaggy hair as he starts patting Monty’s shoulder reassuringly.

“Oh yeah,” Raven says between Miller’s retching sounds, “this is my boyfriend, Finn. Yes, he does exist.”

Lexa’s eyes go wide, and her hold on Harper tightens slightly in shock.

“Why wouldn’t I exist,” Finn asks.

“Maybe because I tell everyone how perfect you are, but you’re always working instead of meeting my friends and proving your existence to them.”

“Is that so,” he asks, and it’s a little gross how seamlessly they flirt over a rapidly expanding puddle of vomit, “do all your friends think I’m imaginary?”

Raven hasn’t even missed a beat in rubbing Miller’s back.

“Well, Lexa doesn’t, but I just met her and she just met you.”

Lexa’s mind is swimming. If Finn is Raven’s boyfriend, then why was he kissing Clarke earlier this week? And if Clarke is one of Raven’s best friend, then why was she letting him? She knew this would be messy, but she wasn’t expecting this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was arguably my favorite to write, and I honestly thought about expanding it even further, but it's 5 AM here and there is so much happening. Some good stuff and some bad stuff, but we'll get through it. At the end of the day, this is a story about love and friendship, and I have no plans to get away from those things.
> 
>  
> 
> As an aside: I struggled for a bit with this whole Clarke accidentally being the other woman thing, mostly because I like Clarke Griffin and Raven Reyes a whole lot and want them to be happy and to be good friends in the long run, but I have a plan for them both. I've just always seen Clarke as this great, but also sometimes unlikable character. Like, she would be completely capable and bright and well-meaning, but she's also shifty as hell and is sometimes as oblivious to her friends as she is attuned to her conquests. Meanwhile, Raven is loyal to a fault, and sort of benignly flirty/outgoing, and she would totally call her boyfriend "my boytoy" or by his last name often enough that her friends honestly don't remember his first name. And Finn, well, I don't much care for Finn or see a way to incorporate him in this story in any meaningful ways after this whole mess is dealt with, so consider this a fair warning that one day he'll ride off into a bland sunset, alone.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke's friends tell her about their night at the Dropship, Raven's plan gets a tentative title, and a little bit of sneakiness brings Clarke and Lexa together again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to the person who read my Sanvers one-shot, called me out for not updating this story, and helped me set my latest missed deadline. I'm sorry for being a garbage person and I won't make any promises I can't keep about part 2 [although I am a) 1000 words into it and b) stuck in a stiff, uncomfortable, conspicuous walking cast and therefore probs trading my burgeoning social life for some nice isolation and writing].

It was a surprisingly relaxing weekend; unlike almost every other drive home, there was no grinding of teeth, no gritted out half-answers about Thelonious questioning Wells’ business major, no frustrated tears about Abby refusing to let Clarke figure her finances out for herself. For once, they got to spend their drive arguing over who got to sing which parts of the _Hamilton_ soundtrack.

She and Wells are wide awake after the hour-long drive back to their house, but campus, and even their slightly off-campus neighborhood, is unusually quiet. Mornings like these, when everything around Polaris University seems sleepy and slow and empty, are what Clarke likes to think of as hangover days. The entire campus, or what feels like the entire campus, partied hard last night, and now, it seems, the campus itself is nursing a hangover.

Usually, Clarke likes hangover mornings. Well, once in a while, terrible impulse control leaves her waking up on the bathroom floor while Octavia snores from the tub, and Clarke curses hangover mornings. Most of the time, though, hangover mornings are a good excuse to sleep in a little later, or to lounge around in pajamas with her roommates instead of doing schoolwork.

Today, however, Clarke has no clue what to expect. She’d gotten steady texts and Snapchats until about midnight, and then nothing more from Octavia or Raven. The only communication she got after that point were a handful of blurry pictures from a clearly intoxicated Bellamy, who so thoughtfully captioned each one with a lengthy line of drunken gibberish.

Wells got a handful of those pictures, too, along with some Snapchats from Murphy and Miller that suggest a wild night. Somehow, none of them mentioned Raven’s plan, or anything about Lexa, to him either, which gives Clarke a little more time to figure out how to talk to him about it. If there’s anything to tell him, that is. 

The first thing they notice when Clarke opens the door is John Murphy passed out on the couch. He’s on his back, one of his bare feet is hanging over the arm of the couch and the other hanging limply off the side, and he’s clutching a small pillow to his chest with both arms.

“He looks so sweet,” Clarke whispers, as Wells snaps a photo.

“You should’ve seen him in the footie pajamas his grandma sent. Adorable,” he says, getting just close enough for a selfie with Murphy. When Wells asks to borrow Clarke’s makeup bag, she digs it out of her bag without asking any questions and ducks into her room to avoid being an accomplice to whatever he has planned.

Clarke flips on her bedroom light and finds a huge mass in the center of her bed and the trash can from the bathroom pulled up right next to it. Her blanket covers most of the body, but there’s no mistaking that wild hair. Bellamy sleeps remarkably like his sister, face buried in a pillow, body cloaked in blankets, black hair sprawled everywhere. He snores, too. She turns the light off and backs out of her room. She shouldn’t be surprised. If Murphy’s on the couch and Bellamy’s in her bed, she half expects Miller to be in Wells’ room.

“Bellamy’s here,” she tells Wells, who’s carefully doodling a huge penis on the side of Murphy’s face.

“Unsurprising,” he says, not breaking his concentration, “what do you think of my work?”

“He’s going to murder you.”

“He can try,” Wells says, “remember when he drew one in Sharpie on my neck last year?”

“Oh yeah,” Clarke says, barely holding back a laugh. Wells made it through two classes before someone had the decency to point it out to him. “You should make it veinier. And hairier.”

“You’ve got an artist’s eye,” he says, and Clarke can see him sporadically applying wild hairs all over it. Murphy’s definitely going to kill him.

“Enjoy your revenge,” she says, slipping into Octavia’s room.

“Don’t worry, I will,” he says after her.

Clarke doesn’t try to wake Octavia gently, this time. She slips out of her shoes and climbs up to stand with both feet on the edge of the bed, opposite of Octavia, and starts jumping. The first moment of impact jostles Octavia slightly closer to Clarke, and the second reels her in even more. The mattress creaks with the blonde’s movements, and Clarke is seriously thankful for Octavia’s recent romantic dry spell, because she doesn’t think she could handle living less than fifty feet from the commotion this bed could make. The brunette groans as her body moves, centimeter by centimeter, but Clarke doesn’t stop. She jumps her heart out, nearly hitting the rickety ceiling fan more than once, until Octavia’s body has rolled all the way to Clarke’s feet, and the blonde has to move one foot to the other side of her just to avoid falling.

“Wakey wake, Octavia Blake,” Clarke says, staring fondly at the lump of a girl beneath her.

“No,” Octavia mumbles, tugging the blanket over her head.

“Please,” Clarke asks in her sweetest voice, “your brother’s in my bed and Murphy’s on the couch. I have nowhere else to go.”

When Octavia doesn’t respond, Clarke makes a move to start jumping again, but a hand shoots out from under the blanket to anchor her foot to the bed.

“Fine,” Octavia says, “just stop moving. Please.”

Clarke smirks, and Octavia scoots over enough for her to lie down. Clarke drops to the spot Octavia has left open, and the brunette lifts the edge of her blanket enough for Clarke to scoot in beside her. When she doesn’t bother to fix her hair, Clarke just rearranges it enough to see her friend’s pouty face.

“I thought you loved early mornings,” Clarke teases.

“I hate you,” Octavia says, eyes still heavy with sleep.

“You love me.”

“I love sleeping.”

“You hate sleeping,” Clarke argues, “that has to be why you get up so early all the time.”

“You must really love sleeping, then,” Octavia says, “you should do that right now.”

The brunette reaches a hand up to paw at Clarke’s face, trying to get her to close her eyes, and Clarke laughs as she smacks it away.

“No way, O. We have too much to talk about.”

“You know I’m never letting you sleep in again, right?”

“Noted. Do I even want to know why your brother’s in my bed with a puke trashcan?”

Octavia sighs and opens her eyes.

“He didn’t puke anywhere but the can, did he?”

“I don’t think so,” Clarke says, hoping she isn’t wrong.

Octavia sighs again.

“Bellboy somehow can’t hold his alcohol after years of being in a frat, and he kept me up until four with his hurling. I left him with a blanket on the bathroom floor when he was done. No clue how he got himself to your room.”

“He’s definitely washing my sheets later. Vomit or no, they’re going to reek.”

“Make him disinfect the trash can, too,” Octavia says, “and the entire bathroom, just in case.”

“I’ll make a list.”

“Good. He’s the only guy I’ve ever known whose tolerance for alcohol went way down after he pledged.”

“Probably because he’s always too busy keeping the others out of trouble to have more than a few beers,” Clarke says. 

“No excuses,” she says, the tiredness finally drained from her voice.

“Did you guys at least have fun?”

“It was actually great, Clarkey. I finally met Collin, and Anya and Lexa have this friend who’s—”

“Wait, who’s Collin?”

“Raven’s boytoy,” Octavia says, as though this is some piece of information Clarke has long known, but somehow forgotten. “He picked her, Monty, and Miller up at the end of the night.”

“Isn’t his name ‘Collins’?”

“What kind of a first name is ‘Collins’?”

“What kind of a first name is ‘Wells’?”

“Crap. We should probably know this. Does this make us terrible friends?”

“No,” Clarke says, but then thinks better of it, “well, maybe, but imagine what names she must be calling us when she talks to him.”

“I hope she sticks to ‘Blake’ and ‘Griffin’.”

“If we’re lucky.”

“I sort of feel like we should just ask, but maybe we’re too deep into the friendship.”

“Definitely in too deep,” Clarke muses, “is he cute, at least? Like, cute enough to be on Raven’s arm?”

The other girl hums thoughtfully, but before she can respond, Wells pokes his head in the door way and says, “There’s a girl in my bed.”

“Mine, too,” Octavia says, jerking a thumb in Clarke’s direction. Wells and Clarke both ignore her.

“And it’s not Raven,” Clarke asks, although she’s sure Octavia would’ve mentioned it by now.

“No,” they say at the same time, and Octavia sighs one more time as she and Clarke sit up to look at Wells.

“Murphy wouldn’t let us leave her.”

“Murphy? John Murphy,” Wells clarifies. Murphy is the least likely of all their friends to pick up a stray out of the kindness of his heart.

“They hit it off at the Dropship, I guess. They danced for a while, and her friends bailed on her, so she came back with us.”

“They danced?” Clarke is fully aware of Murphy’s _dancing_.

“You should’ve seen them. It was a little bit cute, but mostly crazy strange.”

“I’m probably better off without the image,” Clarke says.

“And they didn’t –” Wells trails off, lifting his brows.

“Not as far as I know,” Octavia says, “but neither of them was as drunk as Bell, and I had my hands full looking after him.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Wells starts, “I’m beyond relieved they _probably_ didn’t have sex in my bed, but good for Murphy.”

“He even slept on the couch,” Clarke tells Octavia, “or at least he’s out there now.”

“Really?” Octavia looks shocked when Clarke and Wells both nod.

“Does she have a name?” Clarke is genuinely curious about the kind of girl it would take to keep up with Murphy.

“Emo, or something. I don’t remember. Apparently, I’m not good with names,” she says, looking at Clarke. “That’s a good question for him.”

“You know what this means, Baby Blake,” Wells asks.

“Nothing makes sense when you call me ‘Baby Blake’.”

“It means,” Wells starts, “that yet another of our friends is getting lucky, and we need to step our game up.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” Octavia pouts.

He shrugs his shoulders and laughs, saying, “If it helps, you can be the president of our Forever Alone club.”

“Somehow, it does,” she says, “I’ve had worse backup plans.”

“Neither of you are going to be forever alone,” Clarke says firmly, even though they’re clearly joking, “you’re both too cute and too great.” She even pinches Octavia’s cheeks for good measure.

“Says the girl with all the options,” Octavia says, batting Clarke’s hands away. The blonde freezes. There’s a beat of silence, after which Octavia seems to remember that Lexa isn’t exactly an option for Clarke yet, and that the blonde hasn’t talked to Wells about it, and she gives Clarke the most subtly apologetic look. Clarke, for her part, winces and waits for his inevitable questions.

This time, however, Wells doesn’t ask any questions. He just stands in place, looking off into space for a few long seconds.

“You’ve got your thinking face on, Wells,” Clarke notes sheepishly.

“Just wondering whether we have eggs,” he says. Clarke and Octavia trade confused looks.

“Why?”

“If there’s breakfast to distract him, maybe Murphy won’t actually kill me,” Wells shrugs, “for my little art project.”

Clarke remembers the mess Wells has made of Murphy’s face and snorts. Octavia looks expectantly between the two of them.

“I drew a huge, hairy dick on his face before I knew he had a girl to impress, and the part of me that wants to live is tempted to tell him so he can wash it off, but…”

“But,” Octavia presses.

“I mean, even if he kills me, at least I’ll die laughing.”

“We need to work on your survival instincts,” Octavia says, kicking her blanket off and shuffling out of bed. She stretches her arms above her head for a long few seconds, groaning dramatically, and sighs again. “Get out of my bed, Griffin.”

“I’m really comfy, though.”

“We’ve got to keep Jaha alive.” 

“Aw,” Wells coos, “you care about me.”

“I just don’t want to be the only single friend left,” she says, “plus we need you to pay your share of the rent and keep my brother out of trouble.”

The brunette strides past Wells towards the kitchen, expecting the other two to follow. Clarke rolls her eyes. She may have known Wells the longest, but Octavia loves him almost as much. More than enough, at least, to help their friend cook for a few potentially hungover houseguests.

“You’re lucky she loves you,” Clarke tells Wells as she follows Octavia, “I was kind of looking forward to the carnage.”

 

 

About an hour and a half and one quick grocery store run later, the three of them have set out a spread of pancakes, eggs, bacon, and sausage for their friends. Well, Octavia and Wells did all the heavy lifting in terms of cooking, but Clarke made coffee, offered hands-off encouragement, and pulled the orange juice out of the fridge when the time came, so everyone did what they could. They haven’t been particularly quiet, but somehow the other three haven’t showed any signs of waking up by the time Wells is sliding the umpteenth pancake on a plate.

They fan out to wake the others. Wells wakes Murphy, since neither girl can guarantee a straight face if they have to be within two feet of him. He casually neglects to mention Murphy’s new look. Octavia basically body slams Bellamy to wake him, and Clarke winces when he croaks into consciousness and rolls his sister onto the floor. Clarke, somehow, ends up going alone to wake Murphy’s new friend; she almost has a heart attack when she knocks lightly, then cracks the door to see the girl completely alert on the edge of Wells’ bed. The quiet shifting of her dark eyes as she waits for Clarke to speak is slightly terrifying.

“There’s food upstairs, if you’re hungry,” Clarke says, and then she pulls the door closed, not to give the other girl privacy, but to be free of her laser-like gaze. She’s probably perfect for Murphy.

The girl, Emori, is a lot less terrifying when she’s giggling at the smudged dick doodle on Murphy’s cheek. If anyone had predicted how quickly Murphy’s anger would melt away when faced with that giggle, they probably wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of making breakfast. The boy doesn’t even scrub away the embarrassing art when he makes his plate. He just puffs out and hollows a cheek, making it swell and shrink grotesquely while Emori looks on in amusement. 

It’s more than a little strange, but Octavia was right, and it’s oddly cute, too.

The quiet energy of the morning is interrupted when Raven shows up, limping just a little, but cheery as ever and ringing the doorbell with an inadvisable zeal while Miller pouts behind her. Octavia texted the girl, convinced she’d be as miserable as Bellamy and the others might be, but also sure she’d want to help illuminate Clarke about everything that happened at the Dropship. Clearly, everybody else could stand to learn a thing or two about how to hold their alcohol from Raven.

It’s easy for Clarke, Raven, and Octavia to slip back into the privacy of Octavia’s room when Raven says they need girl time to update Clarke on Octavia’s potential new “lover” and cues a wave of gagging noises from Bellamy that don’t stop until Octavia’s door is sealed. Clarke and Octavia reclaim their spots against the headboard while Raven stretches out along the foot of the bed. It’s comfortable and familiar, even if the stuff they need to discuss isn’t.

Clarke isn’t sure where they’ll start. She wants to know everything, of course, partially because they’re her friends, but also for selfish reasons. Clarke would be lying to herself if she said she wanted them to start with anything other than Lexa.

“Okay,” Clarke says, “tell me everything.”

“We know you want to hear all about Lexa, and I’m totally on board, Griff, but, trust me, you’re really going to want to hear about O’s night, first,” Raven says.

“There’s not much to tell,” Octavia starts, but she does the thing where she picks her cuticles and avoids eye contact.

“Oh, please,” Raven laughs, “remember when you told us about the guy with Lexa the first time you saw her?”

“Yeah,” Clarke says. That muscle-bound hunk was almost as impossible to forget as Lexa.

“Was he, by chance, a ridiculously built, broad shouldered, chiseled, tall, dark, handsome, speci—”

“Calm down, Reyes,” Octavia says. “Really though, was he, like, stupid hot?”

“Even next to Lexa, he was a head turner,” Clarke says, “tall, dark, handsome, the works.”

“We met him,” Raven says proudly, “his name’s Lincoln, he’s super nice, and Octavia’s maybe going to have his babies.” Octavia rolls her eyes and nudges her foot into Raven’s ribs until the girl squirms, but doesn’t disagree.

“Wait,” Clarke says, eyes going wide, “you hit it off with _that_ guy and didn’t tell me immediately? No text, no Snap, nothing?”

“I was a little distracted,” Octavia admits, “but Lincoln’s definitely not Lexa’s boyfriend.”

“We knew that, though,” Clarke says, remembering how adamant Anya had been about Lexa getting back into the dating game.

“The real question is whether he’s going to be _your_ boyfriend,” Raven says.

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees, “is he a good kisser?”

Octavia blushes.

“That good? Damn.” Raven reaches up for a high five, but Octavia blushes even harder.

“We didn’t kiss,” she says, blushing even harder.

Weird, Clarke thinks. Outside of her dry spell, Octavia isn’t exactly shy with the guys she’s into. “Really?”

“Really. I think he might be kind of shy, but he’s seriously amazing on the dance floor,” she stresses. “And I gave him my number, so…”

“So, he’s absolutely going to call, unless all that beauty and brawn is hiding an unforgivable lack of brains,” Raven says easily.

“No big deal,” Octavia says, rolling her eyes even as she eases into a smile.

“Okay, can we just take a second to be excited,” Clarke asks, “because you’re being really casual about it, but this is freaking exciting.”

“It doesn’t have to be a big deal, Clarkey,” Octavia says.

“O, you met a hot, perfect, sweet guy who’s good at dancing, and he’s definitely going to call you later. That deserves celebrating.”

“Fine,” Octavia huffs.

That’s all it takes for Clarke to bounce up onto her knees and wrap her arms around Octavia with a squeal. Raven joins in, and shakes them both in excitement. Clarke grins when Octavia finally squeals along. It’s a short moment, but Octavia only acts reserved and cool when she’s feeling the opposite, and Clarke just needs her to let it out.

“Okay, okay,” Octavia pleads until the others let her go, “now we’re all excited and we haven’t even told you how Phase One of Operation Clarxa went.

“Operation Clarxa,” Clarke asks. The girls settle back into their spaces.

“Duh. Clarke plus Lexa equals Clarxa. It’s your portmanteau,” Raven says.

“Right,” Octavia agrees wiggling her eyebrows, “a little bit of her, a little bit of you. It’s aspirational.”

“It’s a little creepy,” Clarke says. God, what if Octavia accidentally says it in front of Lexa?

“It’ll grow on you,” Octavia says.

“I hope not,” Clarke says, “it sounds like a pill for erectile dysfunction.”

“Okay, ungrateful, we’ll revisit names later, even though we painstakingly picked that one. Now, ask me about Phase One,” Raven instructs.

“But I already know the plan,” Clarke argues. At least she thinks she does.

“I’m a prodigy, Griffin. I operate on the fly, and take my plans where inspiration strikes.”

Clarke narrows her eyes at the smirk fixed on Raven’s face. There’s no use in fighting.

“What was Phase One?” Raven grins, rolls onto her other side, and props her head on a hand.

“Good question, Clarke. Phase One was a multi-step venture. First, we had to make sure Lexa was single single, and not on some star-crossed path with one of her hot friends.”

“I helped with that,” Octavia says proudly.

“Thanks to some seasonally inappropriate tiny, black shorts, O easily caught Lincoln’s eye and kept it all night. He and Lexa are good friends, but, thankfully for both of you, strictly platonic. Same for her beardy friend, Nyko.”

“And what was the other part, Professor Reyes,” Octavia asks.

“The second part was finding out whether she or not she played for the right team. The Sapphic team, that is.”

“Tell me you didn’t do anything embarrassing.”

“Me? Embarrassing? Not on your life, Griffmeister,” Raven says, “I just engineered an easy, albeit drawn out, way to make sure she was a homo hottie, like O thought.”

“Oh, God,” Clarke cringes, her mind racing with all the ways Raven might have tried to sleuth out Lexa’s sexual orientation.

“Your apprehension is harshing my evil genius buzz, Clarke.”

“Sorry,” Clarke says. She braces herself for whatever shock is on its way.

“Forgiven. So, it took a little bit of bribery, but I got the boys on board to—”

“Oh, God,” Clarke repeats, louder this time, but Raven just carries on.

“—Try to seduce Lexa.”

Clarke is dead. She thinks she must have died at least a few minutes ago, but maybe even months ago, because she’s sure this is her personal hell. In what world would it be a good idea to check whether Lexa’s gay by lobbing random boys at her?

“In order to test our hypothesis, that Lexa is a big ol’ gaymo, we needed a control group, aka her guy friends, and several variables, aka the delinquent frat boys we all know and tolerate.”

“Stop frowning. It was brilliant,” Octavia says.

“ _I’m_ brilliant,” Raven amends, “but the plan was fantastic, too. At first I was going to get all the guys to pitch in at the club, but Monty and Lexa had a class together once, and I didn’t want her to be suspicious of his motives.”

“Plus, Monty is the sweetest, gentlest soul, and I don’t think he has it in him to tell a lie,” Octavia says.

“He is a literal cinnamon roll,” Raven says.

“Figurative, I think you mean,” Clarke says.

“Either way, I think he’s got a big old crush on Miller, but that love connection will be another plan for another day.”

Leave it to Raven Reyes to have a wait-list of all the pairs she wants to nudge into relationships.

“Monty was out of the running, but we still had Murphy, Miller, and Bell to work with. It’s a little concerning what those guys’ll do for a night of free drinks,” Octavia says.

“We had to wait to get Lexa alone, because your girl is uber-responsible and stayed on drink guarding duty at the table for a million years. We got lucky when some girl caught Nyko’s eye, and O had Lincoln wrapped around her finger on the dancefloor. First, we sent in Murphy.”

Clarke wants to tell Raven not to call Lexa her girl when she’s literally spoken to the girl once, but there is a certain ring to it.

“He had to go first, before his dancing could scare her off,” Octavia says.

“He brought the classic, macho man persona and some cheesy pick-up lines. Very traditionally masculine, vaguely douchebag-gy, would totally appeal to a certain kind of girl,” Raven says.

“The type of girl with self-esteem issues, probably,” Octavia snorts as she starts fiddling with her phone.

“So, he was a worse version of himself,” Clarke asks.

“Basically, but slimier. He sat next to her for maybe three minutes before she dismissed him, so he left and we sent in Miller,” Raven says.

“He was giggly-drunk when he showed up, so we sent him in as the funny guy. You know the type: laughs at his own jokes, only half listens to you. He already had a bunch of semi-inappropriate knock-knock jokes lined up, so it seemed like the right choice.”

“And how’d that match up go,” Clarke asks.

“He made it a little further, probably a solid five, but she also looked like she was going to punch him in the face the whole time.”

“Or crack her jaw from grinding it so hard,” Octavia says, eyes still trained on her screen.

“So, you guys spent your entire night spying on Lexa? Even when O had a hottie by her side?”

“We would do anything for love, Griffin. Even ignore our dance partners for a while,” Raven says with a genuine smile.

“Dance partners?” Clarke thinks Octavia mentioned Raven’s boyfriend showing up at the end of the night.

“Collins understands that I deserve to share my natural rhythm with the world, so I danced for a while.”

Clarke wants to gloat that she’s the slightly better friend for remembering the guy’s name, but she also doesn’t want Raven to think she and Octavia and terrible friends. Besides, Octavia is looking up at Raven with a suspiciously smug smile.

“She danced with Anya for a while,” Octavia says coyly. “It looked like she _really_ enjoyed Raven’s natural rhythm.”

Clarke looks at Raven expectantly.

“Yeah, right,” Raven rolls her eyes, “I’m very taken and she was just using me as a buffer to ward off weirdos. Anyway, after Miller crashed and burned, we sent Bellamy in as the closer. Handsome, fit, and well-groomed like a classic frat boy, but also one of those sensitive book-learning types.”

“We told him she was in the liberal arts, and he took over from there. Who knew my bro had game?”

“Not me,” Raven laughs.

“Is this where you guys tell me that Bellamy managed to seal the deal,” Clarke asks, frowning instinctively.

“What? Of course not, Clarkey. If he managed that, I would’ve sabotaged it, every step of the way. Soul sisters before the mister who shares my DNA, duh.”

“I don’t believe you for a second, but I’m still honored, O.”

“He did way better than the others, though. He kept a respectable distance, dropped some nerdy book talk to butter her up, and then tried to tell her she had beautiful eyes. He failed, but they talked for like ten minutes. I think he wants to be her friend, or make her read a book or something,” Raven wrinkles her nose. The only books she reads regularly revolve around rocket science or aeronautics or other subjects Clarke doesn’t even want to understand.

“Maybe I’m missing something, but what does it matter if she shot them all down? She could be straight and picky,” Clarke says skeptically.

Octavia and Raven look at each other and laugh out loud, a little too hard for Clarke’s taste. Raven rolls onto her back, leaning her head against Octavia’s legs and stretching her bad leg.

“What’s so funny?”

“You,” Raven says, “a hot girl is completely uninterested in no less than seven unique, diverse dudes, tips off O’s gaydar, and even chats you up, but you still don’t think she’s down to clown in girl town? That’s wild.”

“I’m trying not to make assumptions. There are plenty of reasons she wouldn’t be into any of the guys we know. And her friends are probably too close for her to think—”

“I told you, Clarkey, my vibes are always right.”

“But your vibes don’t necessarily mean—”

“She told Bellamy that she’s gay, Clarke. No vibes or guesswork necessary, although my plan rivals the scientific method in results.”

Clarke can feel her mouth drop open, but she can’t quite will her brain to close it. Lexa is gay. Lexa, the startlingly pretty, considerably nerdy, green-eyed girl who so recently waltzed into Clarke’s life is gay. This doesn’t mean much, in the grand scheme of things. It doesn’t guarantee that she’s into blonde hair or blue eyes or an aversion to physical activity. Clarke isn’t sure she has any more of a shot than Murphy or Miller or Bellamy. Or Wells, even. But, it’s something.

“Say something,” Octavia says, “so we know you’re not broken.”

“I’m not broken.”

“Good,” Raven starts, “because that was the good news.”

“What’s the bad news?”

“Like Anya said, she was looking to meet someone new, so I danced with her, in a very innocent way, and only so I could talk you up,” she says.

“You’re a mastermind and a saint, Raven, but cut to the chase,” Clarke says. None of this seems like bad news.

“She took someone home, Clarke,” Raven says, “she found some girl on the dance floor, and they left together.”

“Oh,” Clarke says. Her shot seems just a little bit smaller now.

“This is fine, right,” Octavia says, “you’ve got your mystery guy at a distance, and she’s got her random hook-up. You can get to know her, and maybe even romance the heart right out of her chest, but you neither of you will be all pent up and frustrated. You can just get to know her.”

“Which brings us to Phase Three,” Raven says, “which is getting you two in the same place at the same long enough for you to do all the romancing.”

“Or casual friend stuff,” Octavia says, “whatever.”

“Look, guys, I really appreciate everything you’ve done, but I’m not sure Phase Three is a good idea. Isn’t it a little weird to trick her into hanging out with me?”

“Clarke, a week ago, you didn’t know this girl existed, and neither did I. She came out of nowhere, looking like a literal goddess, and you’ve been making heart eyes ever since. I’m not saying this is a fairy tale, or fate, or destiny, but maybe you two are supposed to be in each other’s lives, and maybe this is how it starts,” Octavia says, just before checking her phone again.

“C’mon Griffin, ‘creepy’ was staring at a rando in a coffee shop and then stalking her the next day.”  
“I didn’t stalk her,” Clarke says, “she was just there.”

“Exactly,” Octavia says, “and maybe you two were both meant to be there. You said after our run that you could like her, and you owe it to yourself to figure that out.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” Raven starts, “if you let us tell you what we have planned for Phase Three and it seems less creepy than the whole creeping around after her and Wells thing, then you go through with it. We won’t even mention any future phases if you’re not into it. We’ll drop the whole thing.”

Clarke considers her options. She has a relatively busy class schedule, plus all the hours she puts into homework. She works somewhere around twenty hours each week at the restaurant. She takes out certain hours for drawing, and some for spending with her friends. Overall, junior year has this urgency to it that she’s never felt before, and she really doesn’t know how likely it is that she’d just run into Lexa again, if not in the wee hours of the morning or by sheer luck. But her friends are right. Clarke really wants a chance to get to know Lexa, and if Raven and Octavia are willing to help her take that chance, well, she really should take it.

“All right. Tell me about Phase Three.”

Phase Three, as it turns out, is Octavia’s brain child. It’s simple, really, and not as creepy as Clarke worried it might be. The only mission is to get Clarke and Lexa in the same place often enough for them to get to know each other. At worst, Clarke could find out they hate each other. At best, well, Clarke doesn’t want to delude herself into buying into any fairy tale ending.

The blonde doesn’t realize until she’s agreeing to the terms the other girls have started to outline that she doesn’t know who Octavia could be texting. Clarke and Raven are both in the room with her, and Bellamy and Wells are still somewhere in the house with Miller and Murphy. She isn’t giggling to herself like she would if it was Lincoln, and, cool as she might be trying to play it, she would’ve told Clarke and Raven if the boy had already reached out. She doesn’t even think to ask until she notices a devious smile spreading across Octavia’s face.

“Phase Three is in motion,” she says, and Raven smirks right back at her.

“Wait,” Clarke says, “already?”

“Go make yourself even cuter,” Octavia says, “I have to make more pancakes. Anya says Lexa snuck home in the wee hours of the morning and they’re both hungover, so I invited them for breakfast.”

Clarke’s eyes go wide.

“I’ll go make sure the boys and that weird girl haven’t made a mess of the place,” Raven says, pushing herself out of the bed. Octavia gets up behind her. Clarke hasn’t moved a muscle.

“And warn Wells, Clarkey. It doesn’t have to be a big deal, but it’ll be awkward for him if the girl who turned him down shows up in his house unannounced.”

“Technically she turned them all down, O,” Raven reminds her.

“No big, I’ll just kick all the freeloaders out so it’s not awkward for her,” Octavia says, and then they both march out into the hall.

"But not me, though, right?"

"Of course not, Rae, Clarke needs us both for moral support."

Clarke is still in shock.

Raven is an evil genius; of the many things Clarke’s learned about her, that is arguably the most indisputable of them all. Raven ambushing Clarke with an improvised plan is less surprising than Raven _not_ ambushing Clarke with an improvised plan. But Octavia? Even after eight years of friendship, she’s still full of surprises, apparently.

It takes a minute for Clarke to galvanize herself into action. Well, a minute, and Octavia popping her head in the doorway and saying, “C’mon, Clarke, you’ve got home court advantage this time.”

Clarke gets up, and she gets ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm writing A LOT of friendship stuff, but I've realized that I really like friendship, esp female friendship that isn't competition-based in fiction because I don't think there's enough of that. For all the suckage that 2016 has brought, friendship has never failed to make me feel a little better.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke, Octavia, and Raven have guests over for a post-hangover brunch. Lexa has to sort through some feelings.

When Clarke emerges from her bedroom for the second time this morning, a little more carefully put together than she was ten minutes ago, Wells is already hidden away in his. She heads downstairs while Octavia and Raven flit about, making fresh pancakes and cleaning up behind all the friends Octavia so unceremoniously sent home.

She knocks twice, then leans her head in, just like he’d done earlier.

“What’s up,” he asks from his small desk without looking up. He has his huge calendar spread out before him, and seems to be poring over his plans for the week. Clarke decides on a casual, but direct, approach.

“Octavia invited a couple rugby friends over for food,” she says, “and one of them is Lexa.”

“Weird,” he says, but in a way that suggests he doesn’t think it’s all that weird anymore, “anything else?”

Clarke doesn’t tell Wells everything, but there aren’t really many secrets between them. He knows all the important stuff, good and bad. It’s one of the benefits of a lifelong friendship. She gets to tell him whatever she wants, even the boundary-pushing stuff that makes him squirm, and she knows he’ll listen. She has to tell him this, too. When the silence hangs in the air for a beat too long, he looks up at her expectantly.

“When you asked how I knew Lexa, I really didn’t, but I’d seen her the day before, and ran into a door because I was distracted by how attractive she was. Octavia invited her because she thinks we might get along well. Like, romantically.”

Wells lays his pen on the desk and looks at Clarke for a few seconds, pursing his lips in that way he does.

“And O is friends with her because of rugby?”

“Yeah.”

“Anything else?”

“The morning after your gutter incident, she showed up on our doorstep expecting to go for a crazy early run with O, and I crashed it because she asked and she’s ridiculously good looking and hard to say no to.”

“You went running?” Wells’ eyes bulge in surprise.

“I went running,” Clarke confirms, even though she barely believes it herself, “it was awful. Would not recommend.”

Wells laughs, and it’s not his public polite laugh, or even his almost-giggle that comes out when he’s among friends. The laugh he unleashes is so obnoxiously loud and contagious that Clarke can’t help joining him. There’s a sort of weight off her chest. She knows she’s being ridiculous, that there wasn’t really much to tell, that she’s probably reading far more into her limited interaction with Lexa than the other girl; still, Wells is one of Clarke’s best friends, and the idea of keeping this from him, of trying to get close to someone she knows he likes without so much as letting him know, feels wrong.

“God, Clarke, she’s pretty, but wow,” he says, “and in the morning?”

“She’s so pretty,” Clarke says with a shrug, “like, crazy pretty.”

“Yeah, I got that,” he smooths his hands on his pants, “so, did you actually talk to her, or did you just chase her around campus?”

“Trails, actually. We talked a little. She fixed my shoes.”

“Is that a euphemism,” he asks, obviously confused.

“No. She’s actually really knowledgeable about running shoes.”

“Huh,” he says, “I would not have guessed that. Is that everything?”

“Oh, and everyone went to the Dropship together last night, our friends and Lexa, plus her other friends. And Raven and O sort of engineered a way to figure out if she’d be into me.”

“Of course they did. And?”

“She likes girls, at least, but that all I really know.”

“I knew there had to be a reason she wasn’t into me,” he says, a little wistfully.

“Get over yourself,” Clarke says. One of her favorite things about Wells is how he is in moments like these. He gets quiet, and then he asks a million questions, not unlike his dad, but he’s so much better at handling disappointment than she is. He always has been. News that would have Clarke rolling her eyes or ignoring his texts or crying leaves him cracking stupid jokes.

“Why didn’t you tell me when we were at home,” he asks. Clarke pauses, considers all the ways in which her concerns seem unfounded now.

“I don’t know. I guess I didn’t like the idea of flirting with the girl who just turned you down.”

“And now you’re looking for my permission?”

“Maybe,” Clarke frowns, “I just don’t want to keep this from you.”

“Look, Clarke, it was embarrassing, but it’s not like she broke my heart. I barely know her. Stop worrying about me.”

“Really?”

“I mean, don’t cross any of the usual boundaries, but yeah, really. You’re my friend, and if this might make you happy, you should go for it.”

“I’m really glad Murphy didn’t kill you,” Clarke says.

Wells picks his pen back up and laughs. “No thanks to you, Griffin.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Come up for a few minutes later. I don’t want you to feel weird.”

“My ego isn’t actually so fragile that I need to avoid Lexa forever, you know that right?”

“I know that. I just think she should know that you live here, too. Besides, you’re kind of important to me and O, and it would be nice if she could find out you’re harmless now, instead of thinking you’ve been lurking in the shadows or something.”

“Like that time you lurked in the shadows while I embarrassed myself in front of her?”

“Basically,” Clarke concedes, her face getting warm.

“I guess I can make an appearance,” he says.

“Thanks,” Clarke says, finally backing out of his doorway.

“Wait,” he calls out before she can get more than a few feet away, “what about your mystery dude?”

“What about him?”

“Is that still on, or are you focusing your attentions on Lexa?” Wells is so genuinely curious that Clarke knows Raven will have no trouble roping him into operation Clarxa, or whatever it ends up being. She smirks.

“First, it’s not that serious; he’s cute and nice enough, and I’m not opposed to string-free fun. Second, gay or not, I don’t know if she likes me, or if she could, so I might as well keep my options open.”

“How practical of you,” he says.

“I’d like to think so.”

The doorbell rings, just once this time, and Clarke freezes. Wells raises his eyebrows and smiles. She hears Octavia upstairs asking someone to grab the door, as though she and Raven aren’t perfectly capable of answering it.

“Don’t you have somebody to impress?”  
Wells’ words snap Clarke out of her stupor, and she huffs out a great whoosh of a breath before nodding at him.

She heads back up the stairs, allowing her spirits to climb. This is a good thing. It’s a nerve-wracking, potentially disastrous plan, but Clarke is forcing herself to err on the side of optimism. This is going to be a good thing.

This time, when Clarke opens the door, she knows, more or less, what to expect: Lexa and Anya, maybe one of their friends, a little hungover and looking to be fed. It’s a small comfort, just like the thumbs up she gets from Octavia, and the ass slap and “look alive, Griffmeister,” she gets from Raven.

One more deep breath, and she opens the door.

 

 

The twisting in Lexa’s gut can’t be attributed to a hangover. Even after she and Lincoln agreed to stick to beer, lest the cake-flavored vodka hit them harder than anticipated, Lexa was careful not to drink too much. She’s never been a heavyweight, and last night seemed like a terrible time to chance it. She wanted to be in complete control of her faculties if she managed to actually meet someone at the Dropship.

Of course, she did meet someone, Harper, who was attractive and interested, and the perfect segue into the non-committal chapter in Lexa’s life.

The last twelve hours have felt jam packed with changes and surprises, things she couldn’t have seen coming with a telescope and a crystal ball. She tried cake-flavored vodka, enough of it to get over the taste, just like Nyko said, despite her better judgment. She didn’t make a fuss when Anya tucked a dental dam into the small wallet she was carrying, even though her cheeks flamed and she was skeptical about needing it at all.

She made new friends, at least with Raven and Monty. Maybe even Bellamy, if he can keep to his promise to respect her without hitting on her. She wouldn’t mind having a friend who’d be happy to sit in on a few lectures with her. Miller and Murphy wouldn’t even be that bad, if they maintain a healthy amount of distance and never drop a pick-up line in her vicinity again.

Harper should be the biggest surprise of all. That Lexa was able to overcome what Anya calls serial monogamy—which is patently false, since serial killers have to kill at least three people to earn the title of “serial”, and Lexa has only really committed to one person in her twenty years on earth—in order to go home with a stranger, should be huge.

Lexa should be freaking out that, despite the tiny, incredulous voice in her head that relentlessly reminds her of her insecurities and anxieties, she woke up stark naked in a stranger’s bed before the sun could bother to make an appearance; she should be amazed that she managed to spend a night touching someone else, someone new, without thinking about or comparing her to Costia.

But none of that really floors her. It barely even phases her, because Lexa spent a good deal of the night thinking about, and painstakingly trying not to think about, Clarke.

Clarke, the girl she hardly knows, who laughs at her own jokes. Clarke, who hasn’t set foot in Lexa’s apartment, and wasn’t at the Dropship, but who somehow loomed over the entirety of her night. Clarke, who kept flashing into her mind when she had her hands full of pretty, pliant Harper. Clarke, who is, apparently, the kind of person who sneaks around with her friend’s boyfriend.

Lexa doesn’t feel hungover, but it was easier to tell Anya that she was. Easier to write off the concern she shouldn’t feel, which had the corners of her mouth twitching down all morning and her forehead creasing uncontrollably, as nausea or a headache. She doesn’t think Anya believed her, but the other girl hasn’t pushed her yet, and that’s good enough.

It isn’t Lexa’s place to interfere, or to reprimand, or even to pass judgment. She doesn’t know Clarke, or Raven, even if they’ve both made perfectly good impressions on her, and Lexa is determined to steer clear of whatever mess they’re wrapped up in.

But the twist in her gut, the tangling and writhing of her organs that makes her feel uneasy, doesn’t know that. Her body isn’t committing to the same neutrality her mind is set on.

“You sure you’re okay?” Lexa can feel Anya squinting at her behind her oversized sunglasses as they walk up to the house. “You look weird.”

“I don’t look weird.” Lexa focuses on the door, presses the bell, and fights the urge to roll her eyes. She may not be hungover, but she is exhausted.

“You do look weird.” Anya pokes Lexa in the ribs until she squirms. “Tell me why.”

“I’m fine,” Lexa insists, smacking Anya’s hand away. She shifts on the spot, trying to block Anya’s fingers before they can reach her.

“Is it because you haven’t talked me to death about your one-nighter?” She’s using both hands now, digging insistently into Lexa’s ribs; it tickles a little, but is mostly annoying. Anya could’ve given her the third degree at any point in the last hour, but, of course, she waited until now. “You might as well just tell me before you weird everyone else out with that face.”

Lexa groans.

“C’mon, Lexy,” Anya whines, and Lexa jumps from mild to major annoyance.

There are few things Lexa hates more than being called “Lexy”, and Anya knows it. Lexa doesn’t even look at the other girl as she gives her a swift shove. It’s not hard, but Anya’s not expecting it, and her boot catches the edge of the welcome mat and she falls into the short shrub, a foot away. Lexa winces when she hears the thud.

“See? Weird,” Anya says, looking Lexa up and down and reaching out a hand. Lexa grabs on, and has an apology ready, but Anya tugs her down and rolls just out of the path of her fall. The door opens, just then, before either of them can get up, to reveal Clarke. Anya doesn’t even hesitate before throwing out a, “‘Sup, Blondie?”

“Hey,” Clarke says, “are you guys okay?”

Lexa blushes guiltily before she picks herself up and extends a hand again for Anya. The girl takes it, and hops up easily, landing annoyingly close to Clarke. The wide shrub is noticeably flat where they landed, and Lexa can feel the sting of short, pointed leaves down her side.

“Don’t tell me we’re the first people to check out your bush,” Anya says, moving her sunglasses to her head. She casually brushes off her jeans, and Lexa groans again, this time for allowing herself to be surprised by Anya’s crudeness. Clarke is surprised, too, if her wide eyed stare and gaping mouth are any indication. She looks at Lexa and Lexa looks quickly away. The twisting in her gut won’t be stopping anytime soon.

Lexa hears a sharp laugh from inside, and Raven materializes from the relative dimness over Clarke’s shoulder with a, “Damn, that was so bad.”

“Not her worst, somehow,” Lexa says. Anya grins shamelessly.

“Do you two want to come in, or is landscaping one of your interests, too,” Clarke asks, and she’s doing that thing where she could probably be looking at anybody, but it feels like she’s only looking at Lexa, and this is going to be the longest meal ever, Lexa’s sure of it.

 

 

Lexa has been spoiled by her dad’s cooking for her entire life, so flat, starchy, box-made pancakes and fatty, slightly burned bacon don’t exactly make for the best brunch she’s ever had, but the company’s definitely up there. Raven is a literal genius, and, perhaps, the only person Lexa knows who can proudly match the shamelessly raunchy side of Anya’s humor. Octavia is intense in everything she says and does; from skydiving to spelunking, Octavia has tried or is willing to try all of it. She also manages to ask twenty-one questions about rugby before Raven puts a gentle hand on her shoulder, fixes her with a look, and gets her to ease up. 

And Clarke, well, she’s _something_.

When Clarke speaks, sometimes it’s easy to see how fast her mind must be moving; when she shares a short recap of her weekend with her mom, she flits back and forth through time, mentioning things in terms of importance instead of order. Octavia and Raven, and even Anya, follow along so effortlessly, but Lexa gets caught up in the way Clarke’s smile foreshadows her funny little anecdotes before she can even get them out. It’s just like when she laughs at her own jokes, but gentler, quieter.

And when she listens, Clarke’s so reactive. Even if she says nothing back, she’s nodding or smiling or frowning or her eyes are bulging in disbelief. Her expressions are so unguarded, and Lexa can’t tell if it’s how she always is, or because she’s comfortable in her house, or if Lexa only notices because she’s been staring way too long, but she’s astounded.

They’re all sitting around the small kitchen table. Lexa is between Anya and Octavia in the three standard-looking, but mismatched wooden chairs. Clarke is in a folding chair next to Octavia, and Raven keeps moving around in small, worn-looking papasan chair that almost definitely came out of someone’s dorm room.

Lexa’s gut never fully uncoils itself, but she enjoys herself nonetheless. It’s not hard to smile or to laugh around any of these girls, and they’re so obviously relaxed around each other that Lexa resolves to ignore her apprehension for a while, even if Anya’s persistent flirting with Clarke threatens to drive her nuts. They’re all friends, sort of, and Anya would stop if Clarke seemed uncomfortable instead of just mildly amused. Lexa pointedly ignores it, opting not to spare Anya or Clarke a glance whenever it happens. It’s just how Anya is, and it’s never bothered Lexa before.

When she masters the skill of ignoring Anya’s flirting, Lexa relaxes enough that she doesn’t even feel weird when Wells Jaha emerges from god knows where to grab a glass of orange juice, introduces himself to Anya, gives Lexa the most casual, unimposing head nod and disappears back down the stairs.

“Did I not mention that he’s our roommate,” Octavia wonders nonchalantly, “I meant to do that.”

Anya looks confused.

“He told us he was a creep to you, Lexa,” Raven adds, “and he’s really sorry about that.”

She doesn’t ask whether they talk about her often, or whether that apology is coming from all the other guys they know, too. It’s enough that Anya snorts and mutters about being glad she doesn’t have to put any foolish guy in his place, today.

“As long as he knows I’m not interested,” Lexa trails off, trying to seem lighthearted about it so she doesn’t offend her new friends.

“Don’t worry,” Clarke says with a startling amount of conviction, “he’s not a bad guy. He won’t give you any trouble.”

“Neither will my brother or any of the others,” Octavia says, “they’d all apologize independently, but we figured that’d be awkward.”

Anya squints at Lexa.

“That won’t be necessary,” she says, “I’m glad we’re all on the same page.”

“Same page, same paragraph, same sentence,” Raven says, leaning forward in her chair, “so, are you going to tell us about that girl you left with, or are we not there in this friendship, yet?”

All eyes swivel to Lexa, and she lets out a short, almost involuntary laugh. Octavia turns sideways in her seat, giving Lexa her full attention, as Raven straightens up in her chair, and Clarke bites her lip in anticipation. Lexa cannot handle that lip bite.

Heat creeps up the skin of Lexa’s throat and branches to her cheeks and the tips of her ears. It seems easiest to focus on her best friend. Anya just tilts her head and smirks.

“She hasn’t even told me about that,” Anya admits.

“Not much to tell,” Lexa says. She shifts to look at Octavia, “are we going to talk about you and Lincoln?”

“I know a deflection when I see one,” Raven laughs, relaxing back into her chair.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” Lexa maintains, “just a one-night stand.”

“And I’ve never been prouder, champ,” Anya says, playfully punching Lexa’s shoulder. Lexa rolls her eyes, yet again.

The other girls laugh, but Clarke’s lip is still lightly trapped between her teeth, and her cheeks are almost as flushed as Lexa’s.

“Has Lincoln texted you yet,” Anya asks Octavia, “he said he got your number.”

“Not yet,” the girl says.

“He’s going to,” Anya tells her, “he wouldn’t shut up about you on the way home.”

Lexa pinches her leg under the table, but she just laughs and says, “Trust me, he will.”

Octavia blushes and looks away, but Clarke and Raven beam at her, and Lexa hopes this works out for them. Lincoln deserves someone as great as Octavia seems to be.

“Now that all of that’s out of the way,” Raven starts, rising from the papasan and elongating her spine, “you have to let us show you O’s bike, Anya.”

Lexa’s seen Octavia’s motorbike at practice, and she couldn’t miss the huge cloud of dust it kicks up when she rides off, but Lexa’s never thought to ask about it.

“Did you get that new exhaust pipe?” Anya’s not as mechanically savvy as her clear interest makes her seem, but she loves fast cars and other potentially deadly forms of transportation.

“Not yet, but Raven’s helping me to build a more efficient engine.”

The three of them, Raven, Anya, and Octavia, are all up now, and Anya looks at Raven with the fiercest admiration.

“You’re good with cars, too?”

“I was practically raised in a garage,” Raven shrugs, “and I work in one now, part-time.”

“And she’s a genius,” Clarke beams.

“I need to see this bike,” Anya says, obviously impressed. Octavia and Raven head straight for the front door to grab their shoes, while Clarke and Lexa are still getting up, but Anya stops them by looking over her shoulder and saying, “You two stay out of trouble.”

“Are we not invited,” Lexa asks, pretending to be affronted.

“Clarke doesn’t like the bike,” Octavia says offhandedly.  
Lexa looks to Clarke.

“I don’t not like it,” she argues weakly, “I’m just not a gearhead.”

“I knew you’d have a flaw,” Anya says with a smarmy wink, “but, coincidentally, Lexa’s a motorbike hater, too. Always has been.”

“So, it’s settled,” Octavia says cheerily, “all the fun, exciting people will be outside enjoying the badassery of my motorbike, and Clarke and Lexa can occupy themselves in here for a few minutes.”

Lexa wants to argue. She wants to pretend like she gives a single care about building engines or exhaust pipes or whatever else they’re all so excited about just to avoid spending a few minutes alone with Clarke, but she doesn’t know how to do that without looking like a spaz who’s trying to do exactly that.

Clarke looks similarly alarmed, and Lexa’s almost offended. Clarke can’t have nearly as many valid reasons for not wanting all their friends to leave them alone. Lexa’s not sleeping with any of Anya’s partners!

There’s a strangely drawn out moment of eye contact between Octavia and Clarke and Lexa doesn’t know what it means, but Clarke rolls her eyes and says, “Whatever, don’t have too much fun with your death trap,” as though it was a timely comeback for Octavia, and not delivered after a long stretch of intense silence.

“Yeah, yeah,” Raven says.

The three of them walk outside in a flurry of conversation, and then Clarke and Lexa are left alone in the living room.

Lexa feels more awkward now than she has the entire day. She doesn’t know whether to keep standing, or to reclaim her seat at the table, or to sit on the couch. She puts her hands in her back pockets to seem at ease, then feels silly. Clarke wraps her left hand around her right bicep, and looks like she feels just as silly. Lexa realizes the other three aren’t coming in any time soon, so standing around awkwardly isn’t really a viable option.

Her expressions aren’t so free with everyone else gone, Lexa notices. She has no idea what the blonde is thinking.

“Do you want to sit?” Clarke gestures her free thumb at the couch. She doesn’t wait for Lexa to answer before she’s perching on the seat. In addition to the papasan chair in the kitchen, there’s a large, blue bean bag Lexa could sit on, but it seems rude not to share the couch with Clarke. It’s large enough to seat a few people comfortably, so there’s a gap between them when Lexa sits at the opposite end. The gap feels both too narrow and too wide, somehow. Lexa smooths her hands over her jeans.

This shouldn’t be difficult. It shouldn’t be awkward or daunting. Lexa and Clarke have been alone together before, and they fell into the easiest sort of conversation. But Lexa can’t stop thinking about meeting Finn. _Do all your friends think I’m imaginary?_ Clarke certainly doesn’t, Lexa muses.

Across the couch, Clarke lets out small huff of air and turns to Lexa.

“So,” the blonde starts, “see any interesting facts and figures lately?”

Lexa laughs, “Nothing too impressive, in the last few days. What about you? It looked like you were up to your ears in books in that picture.”

Clarke brings a hand up, drags it along her face, and groans.

“You saw that?”

“That was the deal, right? You lived vicariously through our pictures of last night’s debauchery, and we got to be jealous of your comfy, studious night at home.”

Clarke looks at Lexa incredulously and says, “Right, like you were jealous of my sweatpants and solitary confinement.”

“I like sweatpants,” Lexa stresses, “and there’s nothing wrong with a little solitary confinement, here and there.”

“Do you also appreciate writing a million papers,” Clarke asks, “if so, you’re about to be even more jealous.”

“English major, remember? I write papers for fun.”

“You’re joking,” Clarke says in either mock horror or actual horror. She pulls her feet up onto the couch and hugs her knees.

“Exaggerating, maybe,” Lexa admits, “but I don’t actually mind it much, when the subject’s interesting.”

“What subjects are you most interested in,” Clarke asks. She brushes a strand of hair away from her face, and gives Lexa that unnerving, undivided attention. 

You, Lexa almost says. This, this easy slip into conversation is even smoother than it was on their run. It shouldn’t be this easy, though. Not when Lexa is dead set on neutrality in the impending Clarke-Finn-Raven blowup. Not when Clarke is already in an ill-advised romance and Lexa’s avoiding romance altogether.

“Uh, right now, I’m really into French lit,” she says.

“You speak French, too? Raven’s clearly not the only genius around.”

“Hardly,” Lexa says, “after about six years of classes, I can read a hell of a lot more than I can speak. It also helps that my professor gives us plenty of translations.”

“Still impressive,” Clarke says, “I took four years of high school Spanish, and I can barely remember any of it. Although, if you ever need to find a bathroom in a Spanish-speaking area, I’m your girl.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You do that,” she says.

Lexa shifts under Clarke’s gaze. Even though Lexa has always been taught that eye contact is a sign of respect, and she knows she should at least try to meet the blonde’s eyes, she looks away. Looking at Clarke, watching those crystal blues watch her for more than a few seconds, feels so strange. Clarke is so pretty, and sometimes she bites her lip, and other times this one, long blonde hair works itself down over her brow, and, every once in a while, her cheeks flush and Lexa can’t hold onto neutrality if she has to look at all of that, without interruption.

She self-consciously pushes a finger up the bridge of her nose, remembers she isn’t wearing her glasses, and tries to play it off as an itch in one smooth motion.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Lexa looks at Clarke. Blue eyes. Lip bite.

“Do you usually wear contacts?”

She noticed, then. Embarrassing.

“Most of the time,” Lexa says, “why?”

“Just wondering,” Clarke says, “I saw you in glasses once. At Meadowlark.”

“Oh.” Meadowlark, where Finn works, and where Lexa is never going again.

The silence only lingers briefly this time.

“Green looks good on you, by the way.” Pale cheeks flush again. “Your outfit last night, it suited you.”

“Thanks,” Lexa says, “Anya picked it out.”

“She dressed you for your big night, eh?” This time, Clarke bites the tip of her tongue when she smiles and Lexa’s cheeks are the ones heating up.

“She dressed us all, actually. Me, Lincoln, and Nyko. She’s oddly good at things like that, for as little as she claims to care about fashion.”

“Listening to her obviously paid off.” Lip bite and a raised eyebrow, this time.

“She has her moments,” Lexa accepts.

“How long have you been friends?”

“Since preschool, actually.”

“That long?”

“I pushed a boy off a jungle gym for cutting her hair, and haven’t been able to get rid of her since.”

Lexa isn’t sure how, but her legs are tucked up under her and she’s leaning her back against the arm of the couch. Whether it should or shouldn’t be, talking to Clarke is easy. It’s comfortable. Even if she still looks away every few seconds.

“Seriously?”

“He was an awful kid,” Lexa shrugs, “He totally deserved it.”

“Did he cry?”

“Buckets,” Lexa snorts, “scraped his hands up, too”

“That’s terrible,” Clarke laughs, “Anya I would’ve pegged for exacting revenge, but you? You don’t seem like the type.”

“We were both scrappy little terrors. I’ve known Lincoln just as long, and he’s always been the pacifist.”

“I think Octavia really likes him,” Clarke says, a little quieter.

“He’s the best guy I know,” Lexa says, “Anya’s right, he’ll call. He might be a basket case beforehand, but he’ll call.”

“Good,” Clarke says. She sounds relieved.

“How long have you guys known each other,” Lexa asks.

“I’ve known Wells the longest, since our parents have been friends since before we were born. I met Octavia in middle school, and Raven and I were in a couple lectures freshman year, and I introduced her to the others when we became friends. I haven’t pushed anyone off a jungle gym for any of them, but I did once kick a guy who touched Octavia’s butt during an assembly.”

“Not all heroes wear capes,” Lexa laughs.

When Lexa lets her guard down and isn’t actively thinking about this whole boyfriend-stealing mess, it’s almost too easy to talk to Clarke. Obviously, Lexa knows Clarke is pretty. She knows she’s clever, attentive, and kind of funny, but, honestly, Raven and Octavia could easily fit into some of those distinctions and Lexa doesn’t find herself thinking about them the same way. Talking to Clarke isn’t just talking to a pretty girl. It’s almost as effortless as talking to Anya or Lincoln. When they get past the awkwardness of starting conversation, it’s like they’ve know each other for years.

Without either of them making any sudden movements, the space between them has shrunk noticeably. Lexa’s back isn’t against the arm of the couch anymore, and neither is Clarke's. They’re both zeroing in on opposite sides of the same cushion, facing each other. Lexa isn’t even remembering to force herself to look away from Clarke. By the time Anya and the others come back inside, Lexa has spent an hour laughing with Clarke. At the sound of the door, they both shuffle a little further apart.

Raven comes in first with a wide smile on her face, and her eyes clearly oscillate between the two of them, but she doesn’t mention it. Instead, she casually moves over for the other two, plops down on the bean bag, and says, “Sorry that took so long. You must’ve been bored out of your minds.”

“How’s the bike,” Clarke asks, “still a death trap?”

“A beautiful death trap,” Octavia amends as she unlaces her boots.

“I’ll make sure we get that engraved on your headstone,” Clarke tells her.

“So morbid, Griffin,” Raven says. She raises a sneaker in Octavia’s general direction, and the other girl stops pulling off her own shoes to take off Raven’s.

“Someone has to be the realist,” Clarke argues. She smiles at Lexa again.

Anya sits gently on the arm of the chair nearest to Clarke, and eyes Lexa again. It’s only a second, but Lexa knows she’s getting grilled about this later. Anya checks her phone.

“I hate to ruin a good time,” Anya says, "but it’s almost one, and I still have a ton of homework to finish.”

Lexa’s a little disappointed, but she has just as much to work on, and if she waits much longer, all the good study nooks in the library will be long gone.

“Thanks for inviting us,” Lexa says, “maybe next time we can have you guys over.”

“We’d like that,” Clarke says. Over her shoulder, Anya looks far too amused.

“We’ll even get Lincoln there,” Lexa tells Octavia.

“Deal,” she says, “and don’t think you’re getting out of going to the Dropship with us again.”

“We can ditch all the boys and bring Griffin, here,” Raven says, smiling widely, “she can show you guys her best moves. We’ll make a night of it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Anya says, and now, at least, Lexa knows Anya’s intentionally doing this to get a rise out of her.

 

 

They’ve said their goodbyes, and are barely ten feet from the house before Anya jerks an elbow into Lexa’s ribs. She doesn’t break her stride, so Lexa doesn’t either.

“What the –”

“That was for pushing me.”

“Accidentally making you trip over your feet, you mean?”

“I fucking knew it,” Anya says smugly, “you like Blondie.”

“I don’t like her,” Lexa lies. She shoves her hands into her jacket pocket.

“So, you’re cool with me going after her?”

“You’re a grown up.”

“A grown up with your blessing to get Blondie naked?”

“I didn’t say that. You do know you’re blonde, too, right?”

“What are you saying, then? Because it sure seems like you’re calling dibs.”

“Anya,” Lexa huffs.

“What? You’re making this so much harder than it has to be.”

Lexa rolls her eyes as hard as she can, even though they’re both looking straight ahead.

“Stop flirting with Clarke,” she says.

“Didn’t Lincoln say something about ‘I’ statements being more effective?”

“I hate you. Is that effective?”

“C’mon, Lexa. All you have to do is say it.”

“Anya,”

“I’m listening.”

“I think Clarke is sleeping with Raven’s boyfriend behind her back.”

Anya stops walking, and lets out a breath Lexa didn’t think she was holding. She sweeps a hand through blonde hair and looks at Lexa. Anya is the least committal person in Lexa’s life. She has never, in the entirety of their friendship, wanted to be with one person, monogamously, for more than a couple weeks, but she’s also never lied about that. For as much Anya claims that relationships make her skin crawl, and as much as she teases her friends when they’re with people, she respects the hell out of them.

“You think or you know?”

“I know. I met him with Raven when I was leaving last night, but I also saw him making out with Clarke a few days ago.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Hate to say it, Lex, but you know you shouldn’t say anything, right?”

“I’m not an idiot, An.”

“I know, but you are honest. And you’re a good friend. We both know you at least thought about telling Raven.”

“She’s a good person, Anya.”

“They both are,” Anya shrugs, “at least, I thought so.”

Lexa doesn’t know what to say, which usually isn’t a problem around Anya, since no silence is awkward silence between them. This time feels different.

“Raven can do better,” Anya murmurs. Lexa hums her agreement.

“I don’t know how she does it. Clarke, I mean. She doesn’t seem like—”

“Are you sure she knows what she’s doing?”

Is Lexa sure? Of course, she’s sure. Clarke and Raven are good friends, and have been for a few years now. Clarke has to know what she’s doing, right? Unless…

“I don’t know,” Lexa admits, "anything's possible."

They aren’t far from their apartment, and campus is eerily quiet. Lexa shivers, but not because of the cold.

“Good,” Anya says picking her walking pace up like they never stopped, “a little doubt goes a long way.”

“Anya?”

“Yeah?”

“I think I do like Clarke,” Lexa says in a small voice, “if this is all a misunderstanding, I’m calling dibs.”

Anya’s mouth twitches up, but she doesn’t break stride again.

“Fucking serial monogamist.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously missed writing from Lexa's perspective.
> 
> Happy New Year!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke, Lexa, and friends take a day trip together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updates. Sometimes, life comes at you bigly. Within a week, the personification of a canister of Tang took over my country, my grandpa died, and the coffee shop in which I started this story closed super abruptly, so...¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Anyway, after a little break to regather my wits and some very fun ClexaWeek2017 writing to work my way out of my funk, I'm back at it, and hoping y'all like the update!
> 
> If nothing else, it's very long, split into two parts (the second of which I'm finishing up now), and I had fun writing it.

Clarke is doodling her way through class again. It’s been a little over three weeks since she shared her couch with Lexa, and she’s been feeling inspired. It isn’t that she’s filling her entire sketchbook, or anything obsessive like that, but she _may_ have filled an entire page trying to recapture an intricate braid she’d noticed in Lexa’s hair once.

Since that Sunday afternoon, she’s seen a lot of Lexa: walking into a classroom just as Clarke leaves hers; from the sidelines of Octavia’s hair-raising first rugby game; a few rows ahead at a lecture on public health crises in rural communities that Bellamy, of all people, had dragged Clarke to; a couple times in situations elaborately orchestrated by Raven and Octavia. It isn’t usually for long, but they’ve seen each other often enough that they don’t really have to fight through an extended period of silence each time they see each other anymore. It’s easy enough to wave if Clarke catches Lexa’s eye from across a courtyard, or to make small talk when they cross paths in the Arts and Sciences building. They’re in an oddly comfortable limbo between strangers and friends, and Clarke thinks she's finally getting used to it.

As for Lexa, well, Clarke can’t, for the life of her, ever tell what the other girl is thinking, but sometimes it feels like she’s warming up to the blonde. Sometimes, it even feels like there could be _something_ there. They aren’t quite friends yet, and Clarke still feels weird about the whole scheming her way into the other girl’s orbit thing, but she hasn’t been able to shake the sense that Lexa is special. She doesn’t know why, or how, but as long as the brunette seems receptive, Clarke fully intends to find out.

In the time since Clarke tentatively agreed to “Operation Clarxa”, a few things have changed. First, “Operation Clarxa” has been renamed “Operation Clexa” at Wells’ suggestion; Clarke is still on the fence about naming it at all, lest one of them accidentally invoke the name within earshot of Lexa and her friends, but much prefers the new, less clinical title. She won’t admit it to the others, but there’s a certain ring to it.

Second, Wells has taken on an honorary role in the mission, not quite as invested as Raven and Octavia, but doing his best to offer moral support while also talking Raven out of the most outlandish of her schemes, like trying to get Clarke to pick up rugby despite a full schedule and well-known lack of interest in playing sports, and shaming Octavia out of doing anything more than the most surface-level social media stalking when Lexa accepts her friend request. On the other hand, he did also slip Clarke a business card for the writing center, in the off chance that she might get tired of waiting to either run into Lexa, or be put in her path by her meddling friends. _It didn’t work for me,_ he told her, _but I’m not Clarke Griffin_.

Third, Octavia’s been having a text-based _something_ with Lexa’s friend Lincoln, who Clarke has met only briefly, but seems to be keeping Octavia preoccupied, even if they’re _just friends_. He did call, like his friends said he would, late that Sunday afternoon, and the blonde has been trying not to make it into a huge deal until Octavia wants her to. They’re playing it cool, no dates or declarations, but Clarke remembers the certainty with which Lexa called him the best guy she knows, and thinks he might even be good enough for Octavia, if his friendship is enough to have her smiling dopily around the house and checking her phone every five minutes.

Plenty of things have remained unchanged in three weeks, though. For instance, Clarke still wonders whether Octavia’s ever heard the word “subtle”, since she dragged Clarke bowling with the rugby team one night, even when most of the other players didn’t bring non-rugby friends, and volunteered her to work with Lexa and Anya, the team Vice President and President, respectively, to design new team t-shirts in the near future. She also routinely talks Clarke up during their morning runs, and, if not for her clear connection with Lincoln, Clarke would be worried that the other girls might assume Octavia’s into her.

Naturally, Raven is still doing the absolute most. She got Anya’s number, under the guise of wanting to be able to update her directly about her and Octavia’s progress on the motorbike, even though Octavia sees Anya and Lexa almost daily. It isn’t that Clarke doesn’t trust Raven not to embarrass her on purpose, but she’s ninety percent sure that her brainy friend having a direct line to Lexa’s best friend is going to bring her plenty of unintentional embarrassment. Especially since Raven promptly used the girl’s number to send a picture of Clarke frowning in class with a caption that said, _the face she makes when I try to explain bike stuff to her during lab break :(_. Anya responded back with a picture of Lexa glaring darkly that said, _some people can’t appreciate good things…_. It isn’t so bad, but Clarke has never been more grateful that Raven is, surprisingly, the least plugged into social media of all her friends. She shudders thinking of the damage the girl might be able to do with a Facebook account.

Even with all of that going on, Clarke has still found the time to stop in at Meadowlark on Tuesday afternoons and Wednesday nights. She focuses just fine even when she’s sure Finn’s looking at her while she works, and flirting with her when she orders. He makes her overly complicated drinks, introducing her to all the over-priced syrups and artificial flavoring she’d avoid if he wasn’t making them all for the price of a small black coffee. She indulgently sips and appraises them at the counter before she goes back to her seat and turns her attention to her work.

They’re sleeping together, too, but, with the exception of one ridiculously slow Tuesday, they have an unspoken agreement to restrict that to Wednesday nights, after the shop is closed for the night.

Thursday through Monday, Clarke forages for coffee elsewhere, and it suits her just fine. She likes what she has with Finn. It isn’t quite friendship, and it isn’t the same sort of limbo where she and Lexa coexist, but it’s fun. It’s semi-regular, decent sex with someone who doesn’t mind being called on once or twice a week, without even the vaguest promise of a fleeting thought on any other day. It feels good and mindless and simple.

Clarke feels powerful, not in a megalomaniacal way, of course, but she feels like the sort of modern woman other women might aspire to be. She has sex on her own terms, with someone perfectly nice, and she isn’t losing sleep waiting for a text message, or bending herself into his idea of the perfect girl, or even pretending to be any more interested than she is. She doesn’t even have his number. It feels like her own private _Sex and the City_ , but with far less gossip, since all her friends are so focused on helping her get to know Lexa.

A low buzzing in her pocket distracts Clarke from her drawing which is distracting her from a monotonous lecture on something called a convergent series. It’s underlined in Clarke’s notes, because she knows she’s going to have to learn about it directly from the text book, since her calculus professor is always too busy reading directly from his Powerpoint slides to take questions. She doesn’t have to look at her phone to know it’s Wells, Octavia, or Raven, but she does anyway. It’s one of the many benefits of sitting in the back row.

**Raven (11:03): when will you be out of class??**

**Clarke (11:03): I have a 15 min break in like 30, then another class. Why?**

**Raven (11:04): hmm…inconvenient**

**Clarke (11:04): Why???**

**Raven (11:04): no reason**

**Raven (11:06): do you work this weekend?**

**Clarke (11:06): Sat morning shift... Should I be worried?**

**Raven (11:07): O says no. Wells says maybe**

**Clarke (11:07): Ummm…**

**Raven (11:08): how do you feel about hayrack rides?**

**Clarke (11:08): IDK?????**

**Raven (11:09): don’t make plans for Sat night. O will explain later.**

**Clarke (11:10): operation clexa?**

**Raven (11:10): duh**

**Raven (11:11): time for phase 4**

Clarke narrows her eyes. She hasn’t been on a hayrack ride in years, and she can’t even imagine how convoluted the next phase of this plan might be. She has half a mind to call it off, but, so far, Raven’s interference has been far less disastrous than Clarke expected. She puts away her phone and picks up her pencil. Sometimes, she just has to let her Raven do her thing.

The plan, it turns out, is a rugby trip to the pumpkin patch, which baffles Clarke, since she isn’t on the rugby team, until Octavia tells her that they’re all going. Well, _they_ , meaning Clarke, her friends, and a good chunk of the rugby team, including Lexa.

Clarke is almost impressed by how wholesome and straightforward it is, until she realizes that Raven schemed it into existence by getting Octavia to propose the trip as a rugby team outing to Fox, the social chair who’s constantly soliciting ideas from her teammates, and then got Anya to invite her along via text. Clarke isn’t sure how “rugby team bonding” translates to inviting along non-rugby-playing stragglers, but she isn’t questioning it. Raven works in mysterious ways, and Anya has been a surprisingly good sport in the face of Raven’s relentless weirdness, always seeming more amused than annoyed, more intrigued than exasperated.

Late Saturday afternoon, the blonde finds herself in the passenger seat of the car she shares with Wells while he follows the caravan of vehicles en route to Wiley’s pumpkin patch, which is about thirty miles from Polaris. Miller, Bellamy, and Murphy are squeezed in the back, someone’s knobby knees digging into Clarke’s seat, and Monty and Jasper will be meeting them there. Octavia’s in the passenger seat of Lincoln’s car, because he’s a non-rugby-playing straggler, too, and Raven has somehow inserted herself into his backseat, boldly sitting between Anya and Lexa. It can’t be accidental, Clarke decides, even if she doesn’t exactly know what Raven’s up to.

She wasn’t sure about bringing the boys along, considering how they all behaved at the Dropship—because, whether they acted under Raven’s orders or not, Lexa probably still thinks they’re all creeps—but Raven convinced her they would be a good excuse to distance herself in case she felt too out of place with the team, or if, in Raven’s words, _Lexa straight up tells you she’s sick of seeing your face everywhere and tells you to get lost_. 

Octavia also has it on good authority that a few of her teammates are straight, single, and looking to mingle, so she thinks Bellamy and Jasper might actually have a chance at meeting nice girls. Monty, too, maybe, unless he’s been ensnared by Miller’s endearingly mischievous smile and terrible jokes, which Octavia has been banking on for weeks. If anything, Octavia says Operation Clexa has gotten her far more interested in matchmaking.

Clarke’s only goal for the night is to have fun with her friends, and if that means getting some quality time with Lexa, well, she won’t complain.

 

 

Only ten minutes in, and the car ride is making Lexa feel a little queasy. She tries to breathe nonchalantly through her mouth, willing away the feeling, keeping her eyes forward as much as she can, even as Raven chatters beside her. It could be the heat, maybe, since it’s unseasonably warm for late September, and she’s crammed into a confined space with two other girls; or being in the backseat, since she _has_ always been prone to motion sickness, and it’s always slightly worse when she sits in the back; or it could be nerves, the kind that strike every time she knows she’s going to see Clarke, and leave her stomach in knots.

It isn’t that she doesn’t like the other girl. She _clearly_ likes Clarke, and that fact becomes a little more inescapable each time the blonde pops up somewhere new, sending that bright smile Lexa’s way, or almost tripping over some invisible obstacle, and then laughing at herself instead of getting embarrassed like Lexa knows she would. No, Lexa likes Clarke just fine, even if it _is_ baffling how often she sees her now after three years having never seen her around campus. The problem isn’t that Lexa doesn’t like getting to know Clarke, who seems, on the surface, like prime friend material, even prime _girlfriend_ material, if Lexa hadn’t recently sworn off that kind of thing. The problem is that, every single time Lexa sees Clarke, she has to force herself not to think about what the blonde’s been up to with Finn.

She’s taken Anya’s advice so far, and stayed out of the inevitable mess, but Lexa’s still so curious. She’s always like this, really; wanting to know too much. Like, how, after years of friendship, could Clarke not know Raven’s boyfriend? If she does know him, then how have they managed to sneak around behind Raven’s back? Is it a relatively new thing, or is it a full-blown affair? Is it just physical, or are there feelings involved, too? And, if Clarke is in this _thing_ with Finn, then why does it sometimes still feel like she’s testing the proverbial waters with Lexa?

It’s too much to think about, Lexa decides, so she resolves to push it out of her mind. It’s what she’s been doing for weeks. She been burying those questions in the recesses of her mind and trying not to give them any power. It’s mostly worked, too, but not in the brief moments, usually in the early mornings before their run, when all those questions come tumbling out to a half-asleep and impatient Anya, who entertains them for five minutes or less, and always cuts Lexa off before Octavia joins them.

It’s worked, except in the moments when she spots Clarke somewhere new, and feels a flash of almost piercing excitement, which catches her off guard, and then, again, comes that influx of questions she absolutely can’t ask.

It’s the perfect strategy, but only after Lexa has cycled through the shock and the unexpected comfort, the unanswerable questions and the misplaced guilt. When she makes it to the other side of all that, when she recommits herself to keeping her nose out of it, Lexa has fun getting to know Clarke.

And the car sickness is just, well, no, the car sickness is shitty, but on the other side of it, she gets to hang out with her team. And with Clarke.

She lets out another breath and tries to tune back in to what’s happening around her, but stumbles into a conversation about cars, and ends up nodding her way through it until the seat below her starts to vibrate.

“Oh, that’s me,” Raven says, leaning heavily into Anya and pulling her phone out of the back pocket nearest to Lexa. She unlocks her phone, and Lexa isn’t observing her too closely, but it’s hard to miss the smile that breaks out across her face before she says, “Collins got someone to cover his shift, so he’s riding over with Monty and Jasper.”

Lexa tries to discretely catch Anya’s eye over Raven’s head, and the other girl raises her eyebrows in surprise and schools her face into a smile when Raven looks up to ask, “You guys have all met him, right?”

“Everyone but Clarke, I think,” Octavia says from the front seat, “but I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.”

When Lexa looks at her again, Anya’s posture is rigid, and her eyes on the road. Lexa can’t decide if it’s better or worse that Clarke’s best friends don’t think she’s ever met Raven’s boyfriend, but Anya’s not going to help her figure it out until they’re at least out of the car.

Lexa wants to warn Clarke. She wants to warn Raven. She wants to punch this Finn guy in the face, because, if anyone knows anything, it has to be him, right? Tension sets in to Lexa’s shoulders, and the car sickness or the heat or the unyielding anxiety is hitting her in full force, and she knows that if she opens her mouth in the next five minutes, she’ll puke.

So much for not getting herself involved in this mess.

They don’t have much time to scheme after Lincoln parks the car. He, Octavia, and Raven start heading for the entrance while Lexa and Anya lag behind them trading anxious glances. When they’re far enough from their parking spot that they don’t think that the others will volunteer to walk back with them, Anya says she forgot her beanie in the car, and Lexa starts walking in that direction before Raven can offer to join her. Lincoln knows they’re up to something, but he also knows better than to point it out in front of the others, so he just tosses Anya his keys and watches them walk off.

As soon as they’re out of earshot, Anya’s saying, “Bright side: at least Blondie probably didn’t plan to be a boyfriend stealer, right?”

“Do you really think that’s going to make Raven feel any better,” Lexa asks. They’re walking abnormally slowly, trying to make the most of this time away from everyone else.

“I didn’t say that,” Anya says, as she crosses her arms, “she’s going to get her heart broken either way.”

“What can we do?”

They’re weaving through rows of cars parked on a dry, patchy field, ducking under the mirrors that are a little too close together and side-stepping between bumpers that practically touch, strategically staying away from the groups of people filing out of their cars.

“We could stay out of it,” Anya shrugs.

“Any other options?” Lexa shoves both hands in her back pockets. She can’t just stay out of it. Anya can disengage; Lexa can only pretend to.

“We don’t stay out of it.” They find Lincoln’s car and Anya finds her beanie, the slouchy one that Lexa has in a different color, and then start the slow walk back.

“Look, An, I know you think I shouldn’t get involved, but—”

“You shouldn’t. _We_ shouldn’t. But you’ve got a stupidly good heart and I don’t completely hate Blondie or the genius, and shit’s going sideways no matter what tonight, so we might as well be running interference in case Raven goes all Jerry Springer on his ass or has a breakdown.”

“I think we have to tell them,” Lexa says, “it’ll only hurt more if they get blindsided.”

“Of course, nothing says helpful like telling your sort-of-friends that you a) know more about their dating lives than they do, and b) that they’ve been boning the same sleaze ball,” Anya says harshly, “that’s a disaster waiting to happen.”

“We at least have to tell Clarke, though. I think it’s customary for the person who’s being cheated on to side with whoever tells them the truth, right?”

“You don’t watch enough reality TV, Lexa. The best we can hope for is to corral them somewhere away from the team and the crowds so they can figure it out with the least amount of collateral damage.”

They’re almost to the entrance, now. A few of their teammates are at the back of the line, and Lexa spots Raven, Octavia, and Lincoln just inside. Anya pulls Lexa backwards, out of everyone’s line of sight, and she doesn’t mention it if she feels the tremor in Lexa’s hand.

“Maybe we should tell Octavia.” If they tell Octavia, then she can decide whether or not to tell the others since she knows them both better, but then she might also be put in a really bad position between the two of them, so Lexa thinks, “Nevermind, that’s a terrible idea.”

If you give Lexa a thousand-page French manuscript, she’ll put on a pot of coffee and dive right in. If you put her up against two-hundred-pound rugby girl, she’ll drop a shoulder into her, lay her out, and bounce back up without hesitating. But if you put her in the path of someone else’s problem, if you give her even half the tools necessary to fix it, she’ll drive herself half-crazy trying.

Anya puts her hands on Lexa’s shoulders, grips tightly, and says, “Lexa, stop. I need you to use your head, here, not your heart.”

“This is supposed to be a fun day with the team, and our friends, and I don’t want it falling to pieces. We can help them. I just think we need to—”

Anya moves her hands to either side of Lexa’s face, and to anyone who isn’t them, it might look romantic, but Anya only does it when Lexa is panicking.

“You want to help, and you want to protect them all from this, but this is not our fight, okay? They have to find out some time, and you heard them in the car, right? There’s no way Raven isn’t going to try to introduce Finn and Clarke, and we don’t know how they’re going to deal with that. We _can’t_ know until it happens.”

“You know I hate stuff like this,” Lexa says.

“I know, but I need you to find your chill and help me isolate these poor, attractive bastards long enough for them not to make a scene and get banned from a goddamn pumpkin patch for life. Are you with me?”

Lexa takes a deep breath and lets it whoosh out into Anya’s face.

“I’m with you.”

Anya gives her cheeks a light slap, and they jog their way to the back of the line.

 

 

The short wait to get in gives Lexa just enough time to feel collected. The team and all the friends they’ve invited along pay their way in, and, when Lexa catches sight of Clarke in a green and blue plaid shirt and a jean jacket, she smiles and pretends her heart isn’t racing a mile a minute. 

Fox, the team social chair gets everybody moving toward the huge fire pit they’ve rented for the night. She’s been quite the go-getter, collecting a few bucks from everyone to bring in a cooler full of hotdogs and s’mores supplies, and she has rookies toting bags of hotdog buns behind her. When Lexa consciously blocks out all the seemingly inevitable drama, it has all the makings of a really fun night.

They get everything set up around the fire pit, and then break off into groups to explore the attractions as the sun starts to set. Wiley’s Pumpkin Patch is a hokey little place that mixes western-inspired décor with Halloween staples, kid-friendly rides, and county fair-worthy foods.

One group heads for the petting zoo, another books it straight for the go-kart track, and a third sets off in search of the huge, inflatable jumping bags that can send fully grown adults twelve feet in the air. Lexa and Anya make sure they’re with Clarke and Raven, which means they’re also with Lincoln, Octavia, Wells, Bellamy, and Miller as they start with the Little House of Horrors.

The walk to the allegedly haunted house is awkward at first. Lexa isn’t sure about being around three dudes who have hit on her, but she remembers Clarke apologizing for them, and hopes she won’t have to deal with any more straight boy drama than whatever this Finn guy is about to bring into her life. It helps that they’re all a little different in the light of day.

There’s none of the smarmy, contrived charm, or terribly inappropriate jokes. Bellamy geeks out about interviewing a speaker from a panel they both attended. Wells talks about how his internship with a racial justice organization is helping him to make palpable change in their fraternity. Miller, most surprisingly, casually mentions how busy he’s been with his all-gay acapella group. Lexa has to fight the urge to ask why, of all the women at Polaris University, Miller had to go outside of his usual dating pool to hit on _her_ , but when she makes it beyond that impulse, she realizes none of them are that bad.

She isn’t sure how much time they have until Finn shows up and ruins the night, so Lexa throws herself into having a good time, and making sure that Clarke and Raven do, too.

In her two decades of life, Lexa has been to this pumpkin patch exactly twice, and the only thing she really remembers from her childhood visits is that the Little House of Horrors is terrifying. It shouldn’t be. In fact, in a family friendly place like this, Lexa doesn’t think anything should be too frightful, but she has one horrifying memory of her mother carrying a small, sobbing Lexa right back out of the entrance, and it puts twenty-year-old Lexa on edge. She can’t remember what she saw, and she can’t remember why she cried, but it’s awfully hard for her not to feel a little apprehensive when the group reaches the entrance.

The Little House of Horrors is set up to look like a two-story farmhouse. The façade is worn-looking, just faded horizontal planks of wood painted in an unremarkable off-white color. There are small holes where the wood has warped, and they seem to permeate darkness from within the boarded windows. The door is painted black, with unrealistic, but no less ominous-looking red paint dried into a permanent drip. A painted sign hangs from a rusty-looking nail warning people to enter at their own risk. The small patch of dying grass around it is surrounded by a faux wrought iron fence and littered in discarded, holey shoes.

They’ve paired off naturally: Octavia at Lincoln’s side; Anya whispering something Lexa can’t even imagine in Raven’s ear; the three frat boys in a tight huddle, laughing about the cheesiness of the place; Clarke, less than a foot from Lexa at the back of the group. None of them seem very bothered by the slams and bangs and cries of small children that ring out every few seconds, even though Lexa hasn’t seen any small children walk inside.

The place gives Lexa the willies, but the only person next to her, the only person she can share that with without having to tell everyone, is Clarke. Clarke, whose night is about to take a turn for the worse, even if Lexa wishes she could fix it for her. Lexa swallows down her anxiety. 

She isn’t one to let a little fear or anxiety keep her from moving forward. If she were, she’d probably still be sitting petrified in the backseat of Lincoln’s car.

Lincoln and Octavia go first, her leading the way and explaining to him that she and her brother have been here enough times that she can probably point out every shadowy figure and severed head before it appears. The rest of the group agrees that each pair should have at least a minute to move ahead before the others follow, so the frat boys wait their turn, and then go next. Before they go in after the boys, Raven leaves Clarke and Lexa with a cryptic _see you on the other side_ , and then pulls Anya along by the edge of her sleeve.

The door is barely closed behind them before Clarke looks at Lexa, rolls her eyes, and says, “They’re so predictable.”

“What do you mean,” Lexa asks.

“Octavia and Bellamy do this every time they come here. They act like they want to divide and conquer, but they’re probably just waiting to jump out at us. It's all a big game.”

“Oh,” Lexa says, because she’s already uneasy and a little embarrassed because there are ten-year-olds handling this place just fine, and Clarke’s totally going to judge Lexa when she yelps louder than any of those kids at whatever their friends are planning.

“You okay? You seem kind of, I don’t know, jumpy, maybe?”

The blonde steps in a little closer, and it’s definitely been about a minute already, but she doesn’t seem to care. She paying far more attention to Lexa, than to whatever their friends are up to.

“I, uh, I get a little jumpy in things like this,” Lexa admits with a shrug.

“We don’t have to go in, if you don’t want. We can go get,” she looks around, and her eyes catch on one of the booths in the distance, “funnel cake, or whatever. I’ll bet our friends will be just fine scaring unsuspecting kids.”

“It’s okay,” Lexa says, slipping her hands into her pockets, “we can go. But you’ve got to promise you won’t judge me if I scream.”

“I don’t know, Lexa. I like to reserve the ability to judge people at my discretion,” Clarke tells her with a smirk, “I _can_ promise to beat up whichever of the fratties gets you, though.”

Lexa feels her eyebrow arch without thinking about it.

“And if it’s Octavia? Or Raven?”

“Them, too,” Clarke promises, “it would serve them right for leaving us last.”

Lexa’s going to laugh along, but Clarke gets this particularly devious smirk, and blue eyes narrow almost unrecognizably before the blonde looks to the house, and then back to Lexa.

“Something tells me you have an idea,” Lexa says.

“You’re not going to be the scared one today,” Clarke tells her, and then leads her all the way to the exit at the back of the house, where a teenager in a puffy vest is effectively working security. Well, if picking at the zits along his cheeks, skimming a magazine, and ignoring the random feedback on his walkie-talkie counts as working security.

“You can’t go in the exit, ma’am,” he says lazily, barely looking up, “Entrance is on the other side. You can’t miss it.”

“Does it really make a difference,” Clarke asks, her voice a little higher-pitched, more sugary sweet than normal.

He looks up at her, probably ready to shoot her down, but she bats her eyelashes at him and adds, “my friend and I were really hoping we could see the last room again. We’d _really_ appreciate it. Right, Lexa?”

Clarke’s hand latches onto Lexa’s elbow, and she flashes a big, but clearly forced smile. The kid’s eyes waffle between them, and his hand goes instinctively to his hair, ruffling it in what Lexa can only imagine is a practiced move, and he meets Clarke’s smile with Lexa’s least favorite kind of smirk. It’s the kind of smirk that looks the way a catcall feels.

“We’d really appreciate it,” Lexa repeats, tensing just enough that Clarke squeezes gently.

“I guess I can make an exception for two pretty ladies, such as yourselves,” he tells them. He leans forward on his stool and adds, “Just this once, though.”

And then the little bastard winks at them, or tries to, but his right eye flutters shut along with his left, and Lexa has to let Clarke pull her in through the exit to avoid laughing in his barely pubescent face.

“You give a kid a plastic name tag and a stool, and he’ll think he’s god's gift to women,” Clarke whispers in Lexa’s ear when they’re hidden in relative darkness. She squeezes Lexa’s elbow again and pulls her to the left.

“We’re officially a part of his sleazy origin story,” Lexa says back, nerves slowly setting in.

“Just what I’ve always wanted,” Clarke replies, her warm breath tickling Lexa’s cheek, “You nervous?”

“A little,” she says.

Clarke’s hand snakes up further, to Lexa’s bicep, and tightens reassuringly.

“I’ll be right beside you. Promise.”

Clarke moves them slowly through the darkness, one of her hands on the wall, the other on Lexa’s arm, until they’re right outside of the doorway of a room lit by a black light and a bunch of wildly intersecting neon colors on the walls. In the center of the room is a rickety, little bridge suspended by chains a few feet off the ground, and the walls seem to spin around it. It’s nauseating, for sure, but even Lexa can admit that it isn’t scary. That doesn’t mean she asks Clarke to let go of her arm though.

Lexa notices quickly that the bangs and crashes she heard earlier are a mix of background music to set the atmosphere and window shutters timed to open and shut sporadically. The cries she thought she heard are actually witches cackles and little segments of another timed sound effect. Clearly, twenty-year-old Lexa has nothing to worry about in this house, except for finding her friends before they can find her and Clarke.

It turns out to be an easier task than she expects, with Clarke’s sharp eye and patience.

The blonde spots Miller and Bellamy hanging from either side of the bridge, each holding on with one hand just beyond the door, neon colors spinning all around them, waiting to catch someone by the foot as they cross. They’re so busy watching the door in the front that they don’t notice Clarke and Lexa spying from the darkness behind them. The blonde pulls Lexa down into a crouch and gestures for her to wait.

When a group of kids, probably middle schoolers, steps onto the bridge, Miller and Bellamy hang back, and the wobbling of the bridge is enough for Clarke and Lexa to drop down on opposite sides without them seeing. The kids don’t give the girls away, and, within seconds, Clarke is sidling up behind Bellamy, and Lexa behind Miller.

As soon as the group has cleared away, Clarke leans into Bellamy’s ear and asks, “Looking for someone?”

Bellamy’s terrified jolt forward would be satisfying enough, but Miller does the same thing before Lexa can even think of something to say, so she just grins in his face.

“How the hell—” Bellamy starts, but Clarke just shushes him and jerks her thumb toward the exit.

“Losers walk,” she says simply, and both boys grumble, but climb onto the bridge and walk out into the same darkness Lexa and Clarke emerged from.

When Clarke has crawled under the bridge, somewhat ungracefully, she replaces her hand on Lexa’s bicep and explains, “It’s like hide and seek. The last ones in the house are the winners.”

Lexa lets Clarke scope out the next level for a few seconds, before the blonde gives her the all-clear. The short hallway is too bright for any of their friends to be hiding. Lexa follows Clarke through, laughing softly with the blonde when she realizes how ridiculous it all is. Instead of full walls, there are half walls topped with display glass. In each glass, there’s some cheesy Halloween decoration: a dancing skeleton comes to life as Clarke and Lexa pass it; a hologram ghost floats and falls; a half-formed skull sits on a bed of insects; jelly eyeballs dangle by their nerves from the ceiling; little plaques share stories of mysterious disappearances taking place in this little house and date back to the 1800s.

Again, Lexa lets Clarke pull her to a stop before they leave the hallway. There’s a choice, left or right, and the blonde bites her lip for a long second before pulling Lexa left. This time, the room they find is a dusty-looking parlor in low light. Clarke whispers in Lexa’s ear again to warn her about the mechanically rigged ghost that rises from the unexpectedly large piano bench while the keys play themselves menacingly, and the slamming shutters. There’s a stationary hooded monster in one corner, and Frankenstein’s creature, complete with limited arm mobility, in another.

Clarke and Lexa peer around the corner, and, this time, they spot Anya and Raven. Anya’s on one of the tattered couches, sheet pulled over her so that only her feet stick out. Lexa only knows it’s her because she was with her when she bought those tan Vans. Raven’s harder to find, hidden inside the piano bench, which Clarke didn’t think was possible, but, of course, Raven made it happen. It would be the perfect spot, if only Raven could resist the urge to peek out and ask Anya whether anyone is coming yet.

“You’re a terrible sneak, Genius,” Anya tells her, hushed voice carrying all the way to Lexa and Clarke.

“Whatever you say, Casper,” Raven says back.

Lexa and Clarke give them enough time to relax back into their hiding places and then wait long enough to allow a man and his two small children to walk their way through the room. He only looks a little startled to see Clarke and Lexa, but he just hurries his kids off toward the exit without a word.

The bench keeps Raven from being able to see them, but Lexa knows Anya has a sharp eye trained on the front door and a sharp enough ear to catch them walking through the back. She and Clarke both get on the floor, despite all the dust and hay and who-knows-what, and Lexa leads Clarke in the stealthiest army crawl they can manage until they’re between the couch Anya’s on and the piano bench.

Lexa gets as close to Anya’s shoes as she can manage, then stills her hands in the perfect position to untie the laces on both. Meanwhile, Clarke slithers right up to the piano bench and gives Lexa a look when she’s ready. Lexa gives her the nod, and then Clarke launches herself up as quickly as she can, sitting on the piano bench and trapping Raven inside.

“What the—” Anya starts, jumping to her feet, but Lexa has already yanked at both laces and picks herself up just in time to half-tackle Anya back onto the couch. Lexa and Clarke are grinning at each other even as Raven knocks weakly on the underside of the bench lid and mumbles something about revenge.

“What was that,” Clarke asks her when she peels the lid back, “something about how scared you were?”

“I hate you,” Raven tells her, “both of you. Don’t think this is the end, Griffin. You either, Woods.”

Lexa and Clarke help the girl out of the bench, both more than a little impressed at how compact she managed to be, and leave her and Anya to put it back together.

“Don’t forget,” Clarke says as she gets her bicep hold on Lexa, “losers walk.”

“I can’t believe we let Blondie and Lexa beat us,” Anya mumbles, and Lexa isn't surprised by how quickly her friend has gotten into this game, “Next time, we destroy them.”

There really isn’t much left of the house: a few corridors not unlike the one they walked through earlier; a dining room with a long table of ghastly dishes and mobile chairs; a dim kitchen with moving cupboards filled with stuffed rats and bats, with one flickering light bulb and the constant sound of trickling water; a cramped bathroom with broken mirror and a bathtub full of slime; and a bedroom with ghoul rising in the center of the bed and cobwebs lining most of the room.

Lincoln and Octavia are almost too easy to find. Lexa and Clarke have been through all the downstairs rooms, and climb the rickety staircase mentally prepared to see a display not unlike Anya and Raven’s. Clarke bets one of them will be hiding in the tiny closet, and one on or under the bed. What neither of them expects is that, a good twenty minutes after starting this game that Lexa didn’t quite agree to, Lincoln and Octavia have given up on whatever their plan was, and they’re both in the little closet, kissing in the dark.

Lincoln backs away as much as he can, which is only about an inch, and almost hits his head on the low ceiling when Lexa pulls the door open. He shoves his hands in the pocket of his hoodie and looks to Octavia.

“Took you long enough,” she says nonchalantly, but only manages to look at Clarke and Lexa for a second before the blush spreads all over her face.

Clarke laughs and shakes her head at them and says, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you two are finally doing this, but, when people say ‘get a room’, they probably don’t mean _this_.”

“Making out in a haunted house closet? Really,” Lexa says, “Anya's going to be so proud of you, Linc.” 

Lincoln and Octavia lead their walk of shame back down the short staircase, and Lexa follows them with Clarke on her heels.

Before she can get to the bottom, Lexa feels the cool touch of a hand on the strip of exposed skin between the ankle of her jeans and her sneakers. She squeals like a stuck pig, and almost stumbles forward into Octavia’s back, but Clarke catches her with a strong arm around the torso and tries to catch her. It works, sort of, with both girls falling backward, sliding down the last short steps in a heap, Lexa’s backside tight against Clarke’s front.

“Oh, shit, are you guys okay,” Wells darts out from his hiding space in the hollow beneath the stairs and almost shoulders into Lincoln and Octavia trying to make sure he hasn’t accidentally hurt them.

“I’m good,” Clarke says, without making any sudden movement to get up, “Are you all right?”

The blonde’s fingers squeeze Lexa’s side gently as she asks, just once, and the brunette’s sure it’s just a reflex, but it steals the words from her throat for a second.

Other than a spiked heart rate, Lexa’s fine. Better than, even, with the warmth of Clarke’s arm bleeding through to the skin of her stomach, and the heat of her body practically setting Lexa’s back on fire.

“I’m, uh, yeah, I’m all right. I’m fine,” Lexa stutters out, and lets Lincoln pull her to her feet. He smirks right in her face, and she’s sure that, if any of them were focused on him, they’d know why. “Just surprised.”

Lexa and Wells help Clarke to her feet, and the blonde aims a glare at her friend.

“That might have been poor planning on my part,” Wells says sheepishly, “I really wasn’t trying to get your names added to the ‘mysterious accidents’ list.”

“Save it, Wells,” Clarke says, and then smiles and punches him lightly in the arm, “I guess you win this round.”

They regroup outside, Lexa having finally seen the place, in all its cheesy glory, from start to finish, and Clarke declares Wells the winner in this odd little game. The sun has started to set, and, as menacing as the uncertainty of it was earlier, the brunette has to laugh at herself for being creeped out by the place. She isn’t sure whether it’s her age, or the fact that they went through the whole thing backwards, or if it’s just Clarke, but she’s changing her tune on the Little House of Horrors. It isn’t so bad.

The pimply teen is still perched on his stool when they’re leaving, and he offers another almost-wink and hair ruffle before Clarke waves and leads the group away.

“Looks like you survived,” the blonde says quietly, when their friends are all back to laughing about the haunted house and the ways it hasn’t changed in years.

“Barely,” Lexa says through the straightest face she can manage, “My life flashed before my eyes.”

Clarke bumps Lexa’s elbow with her own, mid-step, and says, “Told you I’d be by your side.”

It isn’t as though Lexa’s never been touched. She has, in fact, been touched recently, and far more intimately than Clarke’s light brush against her elbow, but this time, it’s Clarke, and it isn’t because Lexa’s scared or because she’s anxious. This time, it’s because they’re friends, and because Clarke is comfortable. Lexa feels so startled, so surprised and electrified, that it takes everything in her not to run for the hills.

“Yeah,” Lexa says, taking a careful breath and bumping Clarke’s elbow back, “You did.”

 

 

Everyone agrees to take on the corn maze next, but the frat boys get distracted by the smell of kettle corn and turkey legs, and decide to break off with the rest of the group. Wells offers to buy Lexa and Clarke a huge bag to apologize for the incident in the house, and Anya just laughs him off for them and congratulates him on having the “killer instinct” when it comes to winning. He leads his frat brothers away with a smile on his face.

Lexa and the others head for the corn maze on the far end of the pumpkin patch, not far from the hayrack rides. The smell of burning wood is in the air, and the sun is just dipping below the horizon. The crowd has picked up a bit: parents pull their kids along in wagons shaped like cows and pigs; tweens strut around in small groups pretending to be too cool to enjoy the stops; couples hold hands and take their time winding through the wide paths with their ice cream cones.

At five acres, the corn maze is expansive and confusing with three different entry points, but only one true exit. Raven tells the others that she could probably map it out with a sky view, but the maze monitors—a bunch of teenagers not unlike the one at the Little House of Horrors pace back and forth on tall bridges, scanning the rows and waiting to send rescue missions for anybody who gives up without finding the end—don’t let Raven up. Anya tries to stare one of them down, a mousy girl with large, circular glasses, but she doesn’t even flinch.

Lexa doesn’t even want to know what horrors that girl must’ve seen to be unaffected by Anya’s glare.

Since Raven can’t find a way to game the maze beforehand, they decide to split into pairs, each starting at a different entrance. To make it interesting, Octavia suggests that the last ones out have to buy pumpkins for the first ones out. Lexa wouldn’t be surprised if Octavia sprints her way out of this thing. She doesn’t know if Lincoln would be able to keep up.

Lincoln and Octavia pair up again, obviously, and then head to the entrance on the far right. When it’s down to the four girls, Anya calls dibs on Raven because she says there’s no way the genius is finishing last, and winning this thing will make up for their Little House embarrassment, and they head left. That leaves Clarke and Lexa starting in the center aisle, each making eye contact with one of the other pairs until all of them enter the maze at the same time.

The little bit of light still in the sky is effectively blocked by the cornstalks. They tower over Lexa and Clarke by at least a few feet, and, within minutes, are all they can see, aside from the odd group of people.

“So, Lexa, do corn mazes make you jumpy,” Clarke asks. They’ve fallen into step easily, Clarke deferring to Lexa for directional choices, but haven’t said much of anything until now. The silence hasn’t been uncomfortable, but it has given Lexa more than enough time to figure out that Clarke smells like cinnamon and should probably look at the ground more than she does when she walks, since she’s almost tripped over two small rocks already.

Lexa rolls her eyes pointedly at Clarke, “They don’t. Should I be worried about anyone jumping out at us or tripping us down a flight of stairs?”

“I think we’ll be okay,” Clarke says, laughing softly, “but, if you get nervous, I’ll still be right here.”

Friends say reassuring things like that. Lexa’s sure she’s heard something similar from Anya and Lincoln before. She doesn’t think either of them said it in that low of a voice while smelling of cinnamon and walking just a little too close to her, though.

She tries to play it off with a laugh and shoves the hand nearest to Clarke into her jacket pocket.

“I think I’ll be okay this time,” she says, “I actually like mazes.”

“More or less than charts,” Clarke asks, arching her eyebrow.

“Less, but only slightly,” Lexa says, turning a corner, “should I be worried that you think all I care about is learning new facts and studying charts?”

“Nope,” Clarke says easily, “because I know you care about French literature and rugby, too. And that you’re a little anxious, but also brave, and that you’re a toucher.”

Lexa stops in place to ask, “A toucher?”

“You’re tactile,” Clarke explains, nodding to Lexa’s right hand, which has been trailing along the rope that keeps people from wandering into the cornstalks, “you tend to touch things without really thinking about it.”

“You’re not wrong,” Lexa says, trying to decide whether or not she’s surprised by the blonde’s response, “but, this time, I’m doing it on purpose. Supposedly, the easiest method for finding your way out of a maze is to keep a hand on the right wall.”

“So, that’s why you seem like you know where you’re going,” Clarke says, nodding again, “why am I not surprised that you’ve read some wildly in-depth maze strategy guide?”

“You’re giving me too much credit, Clarke. I saw it in an episode of _Scooby-Doo_.”

“No way,” Clarke says, smiling what might be the broadest smile Lexa’s seen so far.

“Really. A solid forty percent of the things I say are just repackaged Velma Dinkley quotes,” Lexa says, and it’s not exactly true, but Clarke laughs, and Lexa does, too.

“I’ll update my list then,” Clarke says, counting on her fingers as they start moving again, “Facts, figures, French literature, rugby, and _Scooby-Doo_.”

“That’s basically everything,” Lexa says, “the important stuff, anyway. I doubt even Anya could come up with a more thorough list.”

A couple comes around the corner just as Lexa’s leading Clarke around it, and the blonde shoots one hand to her heart, and the other to Lexa’s forearm, as they almost run into each other. The four of them exchange the brief apologies that tend to come up when people _almost_ collide, and then go their separate ways.

Lexa can’t help but ask, “Who’s supposed to be the jumpy one?”

Clarke tries to glare with her eyes, but the effect is ruined by her smile when she says, “Not all of us have the official _Scooby-Doo_ maze guru thing going on.”

“You know, I think an argument could be made that _you’re_ the tactile one,” Lexa says.

“That, coming from the girl who still has a hold of the rope.”

“I absentmindedly touch _things_ , Clarke, but you’re more of a people person.”

“Who says I’m doing that absentmindedly,” Clarke asks, arching that eyebrow yet again, and smirking when Lexa flushes and looks away.

The sky is almost completely dark, and Lexa doesn’t know what to say to that, so she doesn’t say anything at all.

“Sorry if I just made this super awkward,” Clarke says after a few beats of silence, “I really do it without thinking most of the time.”

 _Most of the time_.

“It’s okay, Clarke,” Lexa says, “You just caught me off guard. You do that a lot.”

“Do I?”

“Sometimes,” Lexa amends. She keeps her eyes fixed on the path ahead of her, bracing for Clarke to say something, but the blonde doesn’t. She just hums to herself, smiles, and keeps walking.

This feels like flirting. Sometimes, Lexa doubts situations like these, when a pretty girl could be flirting with her, and, in these moments, she usually asks Anya for a second opinion. Anya isn’t here, though, and Lexa doesn’t even think she’d need her best friend’s confirmation if she were. It _feels_ like flirting because it _is_ flirting, but it shouldn’t be flirting because Clarke is seeing Finn and Finn is seeing Raven and they’re all about to see each other here in, god, Lexa has no idea how much time they have left.

All her Clarke-Finn-Raven anxiety was temporarily shaken off at the Little House of Horrors, and she sort of forgot about it until right now.

Lexa thinks of what Anya would say: how this isn’t her fight; how Clarke and Raven and Finn all have to figure this out for themselves; how Lexa and Anya can’t do anything more than to minimize the damage; how Lexa should not, under any circumstances, try to warn either girl what’s coming.

She considers everything Anya might say, and then she reaches out for Clarke’s arm to stop her from moving forward, and she ignores it.

“What are—” Clarke starts, but Lexa shakes her head and runs her hand through her hair in a way that isn’t practiced, or even flattering, because she can’t leave it on Clarke’s arm for more than a second.

“There’s something you should know, and I think it’s going to upset you,” Lexa says, “and it really isn’t my place to tell you, but you’ll probably want to know before it—”

“Woah, Lexa, slow down,” Clarke says, holding her palms up to Lexa, “whatever it is, just tell me.”

“I met Raven’s boyfriend,” Lexa says slowly, so she can figure out how to finish.

“Okay,” Clarke drawls, furrowing her brows and smiling uncertainly, “I’m not jealous, or anything. I’m meeting him tonight.”

“You know him, Clarke,” Lexa says, “It’s Finn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One comment I got several times was something like "can't wait until they figure out this Finn thing". Y'all won't have to wait much longer.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pumpkin patch turns out to be a lot less fun and relaxing than Clarke was hoping when she finds out who Finn is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got some top notch comments on the last chapter, and they really made me think about how I want this story to go. Thanks for those and for reading!
> 
> Hope you like the update

“You know him, Clarke,” Lexa says, “It’s Finn.”

_Finn_? Clarke’s stomach drops at the mention of his name. It doesn’t make any sense.

She can feel her brows pulling together, doing that thing that Octavia always says stresses her out, but Clarke can’t seem to control it when she says, “Raven’s boyfriend’s name is _Collins_ , Lexa.”

Octavia isn’t there to smooth away the crease Clarke can feel deepening on her forehead, but when Lexa looks at her with an uncharacteristically pained expression and tilts her head just so, Clarke is sure her friend wouldn’t be able to help this time.

“Yeah, Clarke,” Lexa starts slowly, “it’s _Finn Collins_.”

Clarke can’t really tell whether her mind goes temporarily blank or whether it gets overwhelmed by a million racing thoughts, but there are a few moments where she can’t figure out how to respond.

Lexa shuffles her weight anxiously from one dusty boot to the other. She shoves her hands in her pockets, takes them back out to knit nervous fingers together, then uses a thumb to draw quick, small circles into her own palm. Clarke just watches, thinking of everything, or nothing, words failing her.

The blonde can’t really tell how long it takes to let the words sink in, but when she looks back up to Lexa’s face, wide, green eyes are trained on her.

“Are you sure,” Clarke finally asks.

Lexa nods once, firmly.

“This doesn’t make any sense, though,” Clarke says, pacing away from Lexa, “He’s…they don’t…but, we…I wouldn’t…”

_But, he’s just a random barista_ , she wants to argue. _They don’t know each other_. _But, we’ve been sleeping together for weeks, and he hasn’t said a single thing about having a girlfriend_. _I wouldn’t do that to Raven_ , Clarke wants to say, but, apparently, she did.

“I’m so sorry, Clarke,” Lexa says, and she has done absolutely nothing to Clarke except for telling her the truth that Finn’s been hiding all this time, but there’s this terrible, small, volatile part of Clarke that feels like exploding on her because this is all too much to take in at a freaking pumpkin patch and because there isn’t anyone else to explode on and because Clarke could’ve lived in blissful ignorance a little while longer if not for this girl and her honesty.

Clarke is pissed. She’s livid, even, because anger comes easier to her than hurt, and she knows what’s about to happen. Girls don’t pick their friends in these situations. Girls pick their boyfriends. And they always choose. They pick their Mr. Perfect, gush-about-him-everyday boyfriend, they pick the guy they’ve been with for years, over the shitty friend who can’t be bothered to remember that guy’s fucking name.

Clarke _knows_ she’s about to lose Raven to this stupid, lying guy, and she wants to raise hell or to scream or to rage, because, even if he didn’t know that she was Clarke-freaking-Griffin, friend of Raven-freaking-Reyes, he knew she wasn’t Raven. Finn did this, and Raven’s still probably going to choose him, because that’s what people do when they’ve been in relationships for years. That’s what people do when they’re in love.

Clarke feels raw and edgy and broken, even though nothing has really happened yet. She feels like lashing out, even though she knows it’s misplaced and stupid and futile, because Lexa is in front of her, quietly bursting Clarke out of her comfortable bubble of happiness.

Clarke isn’t living some _Sex and the City_ -esque free spirit modern woman dream life. She’s just a foolish girl who’s somehow managed to chip away at her friend’s “perfect” relationship without even trying.

Of course, Raven will feel like she has to make a choice, and Clarke knows what choice she’ll make. And she doesn’t even feel like she has the right to be hurt because Raven’s probably going to hurt more.

Clarke has to take a few steps back just to feel like she can breathe.

It isn’t Lexa’s fault, not at all, but Clarke is about to break Raven’s heart into a million jagged pieces, and then she’s probably going to lose her as a friend, and she can’t keep the bite out of her voice when she says, “You knew? This whole time, you knew, and you’re just telling me now? How do you even know about any of this, Lexa?”

“I saw the two of you together outside of Meadowlark one night when I was riding my bike, weeks ago,” Lexa says guiltily, not quite meeting Clarke’s eyes, “but I thought nothing of it. Then I met him when he came to get Raven from the Dropship, and I connected the dots. I thought I shouldn’t get involved.”

“Why are you getting involved now, then,” Clarke asks, the crease in her forehead about as deep as it can possibly get, “What’s changed?”

“I didn’t know you, Clarke,” the brunette says, “I’m not proud of it, but I didn’t know if you knew who he was or not.”

Lexa shrugs her shoulders under her gray jacket, and any misplaced fury Clarke wanted to unleash on her one minute ago drains away, replaced by disappointment. Sure, Clarke has spent weeks very subtly trying to get to know this girl, to be her friend, and to figure out whether she has even the slightest chance at something more, but now she knows what the brunette must think of her, and it all seems like such a waste.

“So, you’re saying you thought I was the type of person to fuck my friend’s boyfriend behind her back for fun,” Clarke says, letting out a hollow laugh, “Oh.”

Lexa stares at the ground. Clarke just presses her lips together and looks away because her eyes are already burning and she can’t deal with anyone’s guilt but her own.

A gentle wind rustles the stalks of corn around them, and the sky is dark, illuminated only by the far-off glow of tall lanterns. Slightly dim in-ground lights line both sides of the gravelly path. The others probably found their way out ages ago.

“I really am sorry,” Lexa says again, not making any move toward Clarke.

“Just so you know,” Clarke spits, her voice ragged even as stubborn tears refuse to fall, “I’m not that person. I don’t hurt my friends, not on purpose.”

“I know that now, Clarke,” Lexa says firmly, taking a half step closer.

“Raven’s going to be heartbroken,” Clarke says, because, even though she’s almost sure her friend is going to stay with Finn, she also knows this is going to hurt Raven like she’s never been hurt before, “and she’s going to hate me.”

“You didn’t know,” Lexa says quietly, taking another tentative step.

“I don’t see how that’s going to make it any easier on her,” Clarke says, “I’m supposed to be her friend, and _Finn_ is supposed to be the best guy she knows.”

She may not have remembered Finn’s first name, but Clarke knows how much Raven lights up when “Mr. Perfect” drives her to a different city just to pick up some auto part, or when he surprises her with tickets to a space and aeronautics museum. Clarke knows how much he means to Raven, and she hates that he clearly doesn’t deserve her.

Lexa’s quiet. She’s fidgety and she’s frowning, and Clarke can tell that she feels bad, but she’s so different from Clarke’s friends. Octavia would be practically steaming, pacing around weighing the benefits of putting Finn in a headlock and forcing him to confess everything to Raven; Wells would be calm, but practical, offering ways to break it to Raven and ways to systematically get back at Finn without ending up in jail; Bellamy wouldn’t say anything before enlisting every frat guy he knows to shake Finn down and buying out a liquor store to help Raven drown her sorrows.

Lexa doesn’t do any of that. She doesn’t try to fire Clarke up with bad ideas, or to preemptively stop her from coming up with her own. She stands one foot away, patiently waiting for Clarke to get over the shock, to get over her own heartbreak, because hurting one of her best friends like this is as close to heartbreak as Clarke has been in years, and she doesn’t say anything.

“I don’t know what to do,” Clarke admits in a small voice, “What should I do?”.

“I can’t answer that for you, Clarke,” Lexa says, “but, if I were Raven, I think I’d want the truth.”

“What if the truth isn’t good enough? What if I tell her the truth, and she still hates me, Lexa? I don’t know how to do all this without losing my friend.”

“You won’t know until you talk to her, and the longer you hold onto all this, the bigger the chance it’ll blow up in your face.”

“It’s already blowing up in my face,” Clarke huffs, “I wanted something easy and uncomplicated and this isn’t either of those things.”

“Maybe not,” Lexa agrees, “but, if I’ve learned anything about you, Clarke, it’s that you’re a good friend. If you’re honest with Raven, and she can’t see that, it isn’t on you. Finn made this choice for all of you, and he’s the only person who deserves to feel guilty right now.”

Clarke swipes at the wetness under her eyes, and she knows Lexa isn’t wrong, but she still can’t quite reconcile the things she _knows_ with the way she _feels_.

“We should find Raven,” Clarke says, sniffling a bit, “Might as well get this over with.”

“Okay.”

“How awful do I look,” Clarke asks when her face is more or less dry. She knows her eyes are probably red rimmed. Her nose, too.

“You don’t,” Lexa says, stepping closer, “but you’ve got a little…”

Her voice trails off as Lexa reaches out run a thumb just under Clarke’s eye, her fingertips grazing the side of Clarke’s face.

She pulls her hand away within seconds, and finishes, “Mascara.”

“It’s never really waterproof,” Clarke laughs weakly, but her face is warm where Lexa touched it, even though the rest of her is downright cold with dread. That warmth is the last thing Clarke wants to be feeling right now, when she’s minutes away from hurting Raven and fully aware that, until recently, Lexa thought she was a terrible person, but she feels it.

“You ready,” Lexa asks her, still close enough to touch.

“As I’ll ever be,” Clarke says, and then the blonde lets Lexa reclaim her hold on the rope along the right wall to lead her out of the maze.

 

 

If Clarke and Lexa were thinking clearly, they would’ve checked their phones. If they weren’t busy having emotional upheavals in a corn maze, they would’ve noticed their text messages. They would’ve known that, since they were the last pair out of the maze, Octavia and Lincoln had already finished the maze and run off to the giant slide. They would’ve realized that Raven and Anya were finished, too, and that they had enough time to find Finn with Monty and Jasper at the front gate before coming all the way back to the maze to collect Clarke and Lexa.

Unfortunately, neither of them had checked their phones, so it comes as a big, unwelcome surprise that, upon exiting the maze in search of Raven, they only make it about fifty feet before running into her, Finn, and the others. Clarke barely hears Lexa’s quiet _Shit_ before she catches sight of them, Finn with an arm draped over Raven’s shoulders as she laughs with Monty.

Anya spots them first, and she’s so much harder to read than Lexa or any of Clarke’s friends, but she doesn’t seem as unaffected as usual, and Clarke swears she flashes her a look of pity.

When Raven sees them, she flashes her broadest smile and practically drags Finn by the arm to meet Clarke and Lexa. It makes Clarke’s whole chest hurt.

“About time, losers. We thought you guys died in there,” Raven says, “and don’t think your pathetic-ness is getting you out of buying me and Anya pumpkins.”  
Clarke can’t make herself look at Finn, but looking at Raven’s bright, amused face isn’t any easier.

“You’ll get your pumpkins,” Lexa promises, laughing even though Clarke thinks it sounds hollow. She’s just glad she didn’t have to respond. She’s grateful for every single second she has left before wrecking Raven’s day.

Raven seems appeased, at least. Lexa stands a little closer to Clarke than usual, and Clarke’s grateful for that, too.

“We better. Anyway, this introduction has been about a million years in the making, but better late than never, right? Griffin, Collins; Collins, Griffin. You guys should know all about each other, because I talk about you both all the time.”

Raven smiles expectantly between Finn and Clarke, clearly thrilled for them to meet. 

Clarke forces herself to look at Finn, at the face she’s seen pretty much weekly for months on end from behind a coffee counter, at the guy she’s seen and touched for weeks, and he gives her the same easy grin she’s seen him use at Meadowlark. He doesn’t seem conflicted or concerned or ashamed. He doesn’t even seem particularly surprised.

Clarke doesn’t know what she was expecting, but certainly not for Finn to extend a hand to her and says, “Nice to meet you You can call me Finn, if you’d like.”

Raven rolls her eyes even as she keeps beaming at them both, “ _Finn_ Collins. _Clarke_ Griffin. I guess you can call each other by your first names.”

Clarke tenses, but the shock of it all has her taking Finn’s hand and shaking it.

She needs to tell Raven the truth, but how’s she supposed to do that when Finn’s standing right here, happy to keep lying to her face?

Raven also introduces Lexa to Jasper, and her good mood seems to keep her from noticing how little Clarke says. It also keeps her from noticing the way Anya sneers at Finn whenever Raven’s head is turned, and the way Lexa isn’t doing much better at hiding her disdain.

Raven just smiles and pulls Finn’s arm from around her shoulders to tangle their fingers together and suggests the group make their way over to the line for the hay rack rides. She’s bouncing off ahead with Finn before anyone can voice any opposition, and everyone else falls in line behind them.

Clarke lets Monty and Jasper fall into step together while she, Lexa, and Anya hang a little ways back. The other blonde surprises Clarke by walking on Clarke’s left instead being beside Lexa.

“I’m assuming Lexa warned you,” Anya says quietly, her eyes forward. Lexa shoots a guilty look at them.

Clarke nods, but doesn’t have the energy left to be offended that Anya probably thought she was some sort of intentional homewrecker, too.

“He’s a fucking asshole,” Anya mutters.

Clarke nods again, and Lexa’s hand brushes just slightly against Clarke’s, the brunette giving her a tight-lipped smile when she looks up, and saying, “He really is.”

Clarke thinks this is how Lexa and Anya do feelings, or how they show that they’re on her side. It isn’t a tight, understanding hug from Wells, or a long-winded, but meaningful, pep talk from Octavia, but it’ll do, for now. It keeps Clarke moving forward, even when Finn and Raven slow down for her to hop onto his back with a little effort and a lot of giggles, instead of limping the rest of the way. It keeps her from running away from what’s sure to be a disaster.

 

 

They make it to the line for the hayrack ride, running into Wells and the frat boys, plus a few of the other rugby girls along the way. After some serious finagling, they all manage to wind up boarding together.

Clarke gets lucky when she slides onto a hay bale near the back between Lexa and Anya, and Wells and Bellamy take the seats opposite them with the new friends they’ve made. Raven and Finn are off in their own world toward the front, with Jasper, Monty, and Miller. It’s almost easy for Clarke to pretend they aren’t there.

She makes conversation with her friends, tries to remember the names of the girls they introduce her to, tries to be friendly and open instead of skittish and quiet. Wells narrows his eyes at her more than once on the short ride, but, before they know it, it’s time to get off and scatter around the open field of pumpkins and gourds in search of something to take home.

Wells doesn’t push when he, Bellamy, and the girls they’re with head one direction and Clarke doesn’t follow. Anya goes off with some of the other rugby girls in a completely different direction, and so do all the boys, but Lexa hangs back beside Clarke. Raven and Finn pass them as they get off the ride and the girl jokes about how she’s going to find the biggest, most unsightly pumpkin to take home, since Clarke and Lexa are paying and Finn’s going to carry it for her, then flits off to look for it.

When Raven’s a couple steps ahead of him, Finn smiles at Clarke, not his impersonal Meadowlark smile, but something smarmier, and her skin crawls even after he dutifully follows after Raven.

“Come on,” Lexa says, nodding her head in the opposite direction. Clarke swallows around the lump that hasn’t really left her throat and lets Lexa lead.

Lexa keeps them moving until they’re surrounded more by pumpkins than people, and looks almost studiously at the pumpkins around them instead of at Clarke.

“I choked,” Clarke says, watching the other girl lift a lumpy-looking pumpkin by its stem.

“You were surprised,” Lexa shrugs, running her fingers along the warty surface of it and then putting it back down, “and he was shameless.”

“He’s a pig.”

“Unfortunately,” Lexa agrees, reaching for a small, smooth one.

“What if I can’t do this,” Clarke asks, wrapping her arms around herself.

“You can.”

“You sound so sure.”

“I am,” Lexa says, looking over her shoulder briefly at Clarke, “It’s going to suck, but you can do this, Clarke. I know you can.”

Lexa sounds so sure, so more composed than she was in the corn maze and so much more confident than Clarke is, that the blonde believes her. She can do this. She has to do this.

Lexa gets Clarke to pick out a pumpkin, one that’s medium-sized, with vein-like lines of green intersecting all over the orange, to get her mind off of all this doom, however briefly. Then the brunette takes her time finding one for herself, until most of their friends have already caught hayrack rides back on their way to the fire that Fox has probably had burning for a while.

Clarke never does shake off the overwhelming sense of dread, but her head is a whole lot clearer by the time she and Lexa are almost back to the fire pit. She knows what she has to do, and she knows that she can do it. She _will_ do it, as soon as she can get Raven alone.

 

The moment of truth comes not long after Clarke and Lexa join the group by the fire. Octavia smirks at them showing up together, but Clarke ignores the girl’s obvious curiosity when she sees that Raven’s sitting by the fire and Finn’s nowhere in sight.

Lexa gives the blonde a last encouraging smile before Clarke ditches her pumpkin next to Wells and heads straight for Raven. As soon as Clarke’s a few feet from her, Raven pops up with a huge smile, and grabs Clarke gently to pull her off away from the group.

“You two are _really_ taking your time tonight,” Raven says quietly, mischief shining in her eyes, “Phase Four is exceeding all my expectations.”

Clarke lets Raven tug her the few feet from the group, and then their roles reverse and Clarke pulls Raven further, asking, “Can we talk?”

Raven looks delighted, even from the corner of Clarke’s eye, and Clarke feels miserable when she says, “Holy shit, Griffin. Phase Four is just supposed to be about getting to know each other better one-on-one. Don’t tell me there are dirty details already.”

“No dirty details,” Clarke says, steeling herself, “This isn’t about that.”

The look on Raven’s face morphs from excitement to confusion to concern.

“Don’t try to tell me she’s not into you, Griffin, because I don’t buy that for a second. You two have been alone together for, like, two hours.”

They’re far enough from the fire pit now, down a small hill, so Clarke stops and says, “It’s about Finn.”

Raven stops, too, turning to face Clarke with the most bewildered expression.

“What about Finn?”

Clarke thinks there’s about a fifty percent chance that she’s going to vomit if she opens her mouth, but she takes her chances, powers through, and says, “Finn is the barista.”

Raven sort of laughs uncomfortably and says, “I mean, yeah, he slings coffee at one of his part time jobs, but how do you know…”

“No, Raven,” Clarke cuts in, “Finn is the barista I’ve been sleeping with. He’s the mystery guy that you were all asking about.”

The other girl blinks about fifteen times before it seems to sink in and she really looks at Clarke. All the mirth and liveliness in her brown eyes is long gone.

“I didn’t—” Clarke isn’t even sure what she wants to say, that she didn’t know, or didn’t mean to, or something entirely different, but equally true. It doesn’t matter though, because Raven cuts her off in a low, clipped voice.

“Stop talking.”

Wind whips against Clarke’s face. Leaves blow and tumble along the ground. Raven stares at her. The warmth of the afternoon is long gone.

Gears are turning in Raven’s head, it doesn’t even occur to Clarke to try to stop them. The look on Raven’s face, the quiet devastation, the disgust, appears quicker than Clarke expects; Raven is drawing her own conclusions, and Clarke feels so alien under her harsh observation. This isn’t a side of Raven she knows.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke says miserably.

“Really, Griffin,” Raven asks harshly, “blonde hair, big tits, and you could probably get any dick in the room, but you had to go for my boyfriend? I thought we were friends.”

It’s the reaction Clarke thought she was expecting, but it’s somehow worse than she imagined having Raven jump to the same conclusion that Lexa had. Being right has never felt so wrong.

“It wasn’t like that. I didn’t know he was the same guy,” Clarke says, tearing up again, “I didn’t know he was _your_ guy.”

This unfamiliar version of Raven doesn’t seem particularly convinced.

“I talk about him all the time. You don’t get to play the dumb blonde.”

Raven isn’t quite shouting, but, with the venom behind her words, she might as well be.

“I’m not playing anything,” Clarke argues, “I thought his name was Collins, and I didn’t find out Finn was the same guy until today. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Except you did, Clarke. You did do this to me.”

“ _Finn_ did this to you.”

It might be the wrong thing to say, even though it’s true, because Raven’s face falls even further than Clarke thought possible.

But _this_ Raven is so different from the one Clarke knows and loves, and that look of devastation is gone as quickly as it showed up, replaced by sheer exhaustion. She seems to deflate with a deep breath, and her eyes are glassy, her mouth twisted.

“We’re done, Clarke. Stay away from me, and stay away from Finn. You’ve done enough.”

She says it all with an air of finality that, realistically, does its job and keeps Clarke from hazarding a response. Raven spins on her heel and Clarke can hear her sniffle, but she feels paralyzed watching one of her best friends walk away from her. It’s exactly what Clarke thought would happen, but it feels a million times worse.

The other girl has barely made it ten feet when she stops and barks out, “Plan’s off, by the way. Lexa deserves better than your bullshit.”

She doesn’t even face Clarke when she says it, just tosses it out over her shoulder, and then starts off again toward the fire pit.

A few parents sneer at Raven’s back, and then at Clarke as they usher their small children away.

Clarke isn’t sure how long she stands there, but it’s long enough to see Raven amble up the small hill, looking far worse for wear than when they’d walked down together, like Clarke has hurt her body as much as her heart.

The tightness from the urge to cry swells in Clarke’s throat like a balloon, but she doesn’t let a single tear fall. Clarke stares out into the lantern-lit sky, at the stacked small hay bales that serve as benches, and the wooden stand-ins where a group of pre-teens are snapping pictures of each other as misshapen cows, at the little boy happily chowing down on a smoked turkey leg, and the girl heaving around a pumpkin half her size.

She knows that as soon as she starts crying, she won’t be able to stop herself but she isn’t sure how to move.

Eventually, Wells rounds the corner, solemn grimness pulling at his face. He steps into her space hesitantly, stoops a little to look in her eyes, rests his hand on her arm, silently asks permission to hug her. Clarke just sidesteps him and pulls her arm away. She feels a little guilty, because, clearly, Wells is worried, but she isn’t ready to be comforted.

They walk, side by side, back to the fire. Clarke lets Wells clasp their hands together, like they’re kids again; she’s too stubborn to let him do anything else, like throw his jacket over her shoulders when she shivers, or ask her what happened, even though she knows he wants to. The cold might be the only thing protecting her from all-encompassing sadness. When they get there, Raven is already gone, and so are Jasper, Monty, and Miller. She assumes Finn is with them.

Clarke wonders if Raven told them why they were rushing away. She wonders if she gave Finn that same broken look she’d given Clarke.  
It’s probably for the best that Clarke doesn’t know. She lets go of Wells’ hand before the others can see them, plasters on a small smile.

The first person to notice them coming back is Lexa, and Clarke’s cold cheeks, for the first time, go colder instead of heating under her concerned gaze. She doesn’t call out to them, but worries her lip and looks at Clarke like she’s sorry, even though she shouldn’t be.

When Octavia sees them, she springs up from Lincoln’s side and gets to them before they can rejoin the circle. She doesn’t seem upset, or disappointed, just genuinely confused.

“What’s up? Raven just practically sprinted out of here with Collins and the boys. Did you two have a fight or something?” That balloon of sadness is still steadily expanding in Clarke’s throat, and isn’t sure how to tell Octavia. She isn’t sure if she can handle another friend walking away, before she can even explain herself.

“We’re going to head out, too, O,” Wells interjects, then lowers his voice, “you guys can talk about this later, but Clarke,” he glances sheepishly at the blonde, “we just have to go, now.”

Octavia squints at him, and then at Clarke, “Okay, let’s go.”

“Stay,” Clarke says, barely above a whisper. Her voice sounds strained and awkward, like that one word has never been in her vocabulary before today, and she isn’t sure she can repeat herself, or add anything else.

“You stay with the team. Keep Lincoln company,” Wells offers with a weak smile, “We’ll be okay.”

Octavia seems skeptical.

“Really,” Wells says again, “Bellamy and Murphy are having a good time, so they can catch a ride with you guys or with some of the girls, and we’ll see you at home.”

“If you’re sure,” Octavia says to him, but her eyes bore into Clarke’s with an almost palpable intensity.

“Of course,” he says.

Octavia notices Clarke’s shivering, and doesn’t wait for permission to wrap her arms around Clarke in a hug. It’s brief, probably because Clarke is shaking like a feral cat with no basis for accepting human contact, but tight, reassuring.

She hasn’t lost Octavia, yet.

“I don’t know what’s going on, Clarke. I don’t know if Rae did something, or if you did something, but it’ll blow over, okay? Whatever it is,” Octavia rubs her hands along Clarke’s arms, like she’s trying to warm up, “you’ll get through it, okay?”

Clarke gives a short, jerky nod.

“I love you, you know?”

Another nod as Octavia gently squeezes Clarke’s biceps before letting her go.

Clarke hardly manages to smile at the rugby players who wave their goodbyes. She avoids looking at Lexa and Anya entirely. Wells doesn’t make her talk on the way to the car, he just squeezes her hand once from the driver’s seat and turns the radio on low. Clarke doesn’t say another word the whole way home.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke deals with Raven hating her in the only way she knows how, which pretty much means doing her best to avoid thinking about it. Very Clarke-centric chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to leave you guys hanging for so long, but time really flies when you aren't meeting any of your soft, self-imposed deadlines. Spring is proving to be pretty hectic for me, but I'll try to have the next update up soon!

Wells gives Clarke all the space she wants when they get home from the pumpkin patch on Saturday night. He doesn’t try to make her talk, just offers her a weak smile and, she hopes, doesn’t take it too personally when Clarke can’t meet his eyes and heads straight to her bedroom.

She shuts the door behind her, content to hide away, and slips directly into bed. She doesn’t bother with pajamas, just leaving her shoes and small bag on the floor and dropping her pants and plaid shirt over the edge of the bed to join them. She sinks into her blanket, pulls it all the way up to her shoulders, and sits, alone and sad, with the chill of September air still sunken into her bones.

She hears Wells fire up some game in the living room, muffled gunshots and explosions filtering in through thin walls, but with none of the usual grumbles and shouting at the screen. She knows he’s hovering, but in what he thinks is the least obvious way.

Clarke doesn’t even know if he managed to get the number of the very cute rugby girl who seemed to enjoy his attention earlier before he dropped everything to drive her home.

She appreciates him, even if she can’t stand the idea of explaining everything to him right now.

Clarke isn’t good at these things. In fact, Clarke is terrible at these things, not that she has much, or any, experience with inadvertently betraying one of her best friends, but, even if she did, she’d probably still be awful at dealing with the fallout. She’s terrible at having her friends mad at her, and worse at figuring out how to deal with them when they are.

She isn’t like Wells, with his carefully measured lingering in the background, waiting out moods or grudges or annoyance with patience. She isn’t like Octavia, inserting herself into occupied space, confronting the smallest of disagreements before they can spiral or fester. She isn’t like Bellamy, disappearing for a day or two, only coming back when whoever’s mad at him has lost their steam to give them some small token of apology. She isn’t Raven, who, until now, always found a way to laugh in the face of conflict, who refused to walk away without making sure whoever was mad at her knew how ridiculous it was to be fighting in the first place.

Of course, the Raven who left Clarke standing alone at the pumpkin patch felt like a completely different Raven.

Clarke isn’t like any of them, and she doesn’t have a strategy for this kind of conflict. She doesn’t have a strategy for this _Raven_.

She and Wells have been friends for their entire lives, and she can count on one hand the number of times she’s hurt him, and never on purpose. They’ve both made their share of missteps, they’ve pissed each other off and they’ve let each other down, but he’s never, not even once, looked at her like Raven did. Neither has Octavia, for that matter. Or even Bellamy.

Nobody has ever looked as hurt or disappointed or disgusted by Clarke as Raven did, and Clarke doesn’t know what to do about it.

There isn’t an etiquette for this. Clarke wants to shake Raven by the shoulders until it sinks in to her thick skull that Finn is a liar and a cheater. She wants to crawl right into that genius brain and program it to understand that Clarke is not the enemy. She wants that truth to settle in quickly and deeply, and then she wants to help Raven toss all of Finn’s shit out of the house they share with their friends, and to ply her with all the junk food and cheap wine and complicated auto parts it takes to turn her back into the Raven Reyes that Clarke knows and loves.

But Clarke can’t do any of that if Raven doesn’t want her to. 

It’s damn near impossible to do all the extra supportive things that your friend deserves if she wants nothing to do with you, and, if it isn’t impossible, it sure feels that way tonight.

At some point, the tears Clarke’s been struggling against break free, streaming wet heat down her cheeks and chin. She lets herself cry until the neck of her t-shirt is damp and warm and snottier than she’d care to admit, then tosses it off to join the heap on the floor. She replaces it with the long sleeve t-shirt she’d left on the edge of her bed in the morning and burrows back into the cocoon of warmth she’s made.

She knows when Octavia gets home, if not because of the closing of the door, then because the sporadic sounds of battle get replaced by hushed voices that sound close enough to be right outside her door. Wells and Octavia stand there so long, whispering, but not quietly enough, that Clarke eventually finds herself shouting through the door just to get them to scatter.

Clarke loves her friends, even if this whole incident seems to have called that into question. She loves them all, but, more importantly, she _knows_ them.

She knows Wells is probably trying to convince Octavia to give Clarke the night to sulk or to cry or to think by herself, just like she knows Octavia is hoping to get him on board with barging into Clarke’s room and pressing her to talk and talk and talk to them until she’s talked herself out of feeling like shit. She knows they’re concerned and confused, and that they just want to help her fix whatever it is she thinks she’s broken.

She also knows they can’t.

This isn’t Clarke working herself into a frenzy over a crappy grade. It’s not Clarke stressing over being stiffed by a rude customer at the restaurant. It isn’t Clarke having a rough day after spending a night battling her own rogue subconscious.

They can’t make this better with a million cups of tea or unsolicited cuddles. They can’t take away the look of betrayal on Raven’s face, the venom in her words, the willingness to give Finn the benefit of the doubt, or free pass, even when it means dismissing Clarke completely. They can’t fix it, and Clarke isn’t ready for them to try, but she knows they will.

That is, if they even believe her. 

Clarke knows her friends, or at least she thinks she does, and she really wants to believe they’d trust her to tell the truth, but she doesn’t want to be wrong. Not today, not about that, not about them.

So, she shoos her friends away from her door. She shuts them out for the night because dealing with this alone is easier than so much as risking any other friendships today. Clarke stays in her room, face damp from frustrated tears, and tries not to think about all the reasons why this sucks.

It doesn’t work.

She fails so spectacularly at thinking about anything other than a broken-looking Raven Reyes turning her back on her that, after a half hour, Clarke fishes her phone out of the back pocket of her discarded jeans, texts Bellamy, and asks for the kind of distraction that he’s almost always down for. Clarke assumes he caught the same ride home as Octavia, meaning he’s had barely an hour to get comfortable at the frat house, but that doesn’t stop him from immediately agreeing.

She slips into a flattering pair of blue jeans and a slightly low-cut gray shirt that has never gotten any complaints, and black boots. Octavia’s door is open when Clarke heads to the bathroom to wash her face and put on the barest hint of makeup, but, to her credit, she doesn’t say anything, even though she gives Clarke a curious frown.

Wells is still on the couch when Bellamy texts to say he’s a couple minutes away, and he gives Clarke a pinched, concerned face that reminds her a lot more of Thelonious than it does her friend. She shrugs on a jacket and heads for the front door, trying to ignore the look he gives her as she does.

“I’m going out with Bellamy,” she says, “don’t wait up.”

“Are you sure that’s—” Wells gets out before Clarke sighs.

“Just give me the night, okay,” Clarke pleads, “I swear we’ll talk tomorrow, but I can’t right now.”

Wells stares at her for a long second before he says, “Okay,” and hops to his feet. He’s still in the clothes he wore to the pumpkin patch, but he grabs his jacket from the hall closet, starts toeing on his sneakers, and calls out to Octavia, “We’re going out with Bellamy.”

Octavia, of course, practically sprints out of her room and asks, “We are?”

She looks to Clarke, and the blonde can only nod dumbly while the other girl runs off to get her jacket. She doesn’t delude herself into thinking that they’d allow her to uninvite them, so Clarke settles for telling them, “I don’t want to be managed tonight. If you go, I don’t want you hovering over my shoulder or giving me those mopey looks, okay?”

“No mopey looks. Got it,” Octavia agrees while Wells says, “Deal.”

 

 

Clarke imagines it’s difficult for Octavia and Wells not to try to manage her when she’s on her fifth shot of Rumple Minze.

Bellamy took the first few with her, the redhead behind the bar lining up two rows of three shots side by side and taking his money with a grimace. He hadn’t asked any questions or given Clarke any barely concealed look of sympathy when he’d made it to the house, just fell into step beside her, Octavia and Wells trailing along behind them, until they were walking into the Deer’s Head.

It’s the closest thing to a proper dive bar within easy walking distance, with dirt cheap drinks, scuffed pool tables, and patrons who have probably been regulars since Clarke was in diapers. It’s dingy and there are license plates lining the bar and presumably stolen traffic signs scattered along the walls. It’s the kind of place where Clarke can afford to drown her problems without getting a million questions or, worse, dealing with sleazy college guys trying to buy their way into her pants.

Sure, there are plenty of people with the potential to give Clarke trouble—greasy-fingered, middle aged men with wandering eyes, gray-haired bikers who have the occasional shouting match, and the gamblers who pretty much live in the booths in the back—but, considering the “trouble stick” that always rests under the bar and take-no-shit attitude of all the employees, she’s never had a problem.

She takes the first few shots with Bellamy, and, when he reaches his limit for artificial mint flavoring, Clarke takes a couple more by herself.

She hates Rumple Minze. Everyone does. It’s the alcoholic equivalent of Santa Clause jizzing into a glass. It’s syrupy and too sweet and Clarke can’t imagine a day ever arriving when she doesn’t ingest Rumple Minze only to regret it hours later, but it’s sort of the only thing that feels right for a night like this. Tonight isn’t about celebrating or enjoying the moment, it isn’t about sipping mixed drinks or double fisting dollar tallboys or sampling craft beers.

It’s a distraction. It’s sitting somewhere that isn’t her bed, listening to George Strait singing from a jukebox instead of the broken record that is her mind, forcing herself to be a part of the world, in whatever small way, instead of disengaging completely.

Clarke won’t be surprised if this a vomit-until-sunrise kind of night, but, for once, she doesn’t care.

Clarke just wants to forget, and, for a few hours, she can. She does.

It’s almost worth the blackout.

 

 

At some point, between switching from Rumple Minze to Jägermeister and depositing well over thirty quarters into the jukebox, Clarke’s brain taps out and leaves her operating on alcohol autopilot.

There are things she remembers, like taking a shot with the wizened old woman who joined the redhead behind the bar, and getting into a game of darts with a man in a leather vest and bandana. She remembers saying the Jaeger was so awful that she wanted a glass of orange juice to chase it. She remembers Bellamy plucking a cigarette from between her fingertips, returning it to the greasy-fingered man who offered it, steering her away with a gentle smile, and she remembers thinking the smile looked almost as thin and forced as the ones Wells and Octavia were giving whenever she caught them pretending not to stare.

The rest of the night, however, is empty. No blurry snippets of bad decisions. No nonsensical episodes of trying to pee while the world refused to right itself. No hazy recollection of getting up close and personal with the grimiest of public toilets. Nothing.

Clarke feels like a robot, like she powered down in the dim staleness of the Deer’s Head, and was shocked into consciousness by natural light and the gentle prodding of Octavia’s fingers against her cheeks.

“Hey,” Octavia says quietly, pulling back her hands, “how are you feeling?”

Clarke groans when she rolls from her side to her back. Her neck and shoulders are stiff, and every movement, no matter how slight, makes her feel ill. Something cold splashes onto one of her bare feet, and, instead of jumping in surprise, Clarke has to slow her reaction to keep herself from feeling like her skull is going to explode.

She peeks down at her feet and groans again.

“I’m in the bathtub,” she notes with a frown, “Super.”

“Do you have to work today,” Octavia asks, folding her arms on the edge of the tub and leaning her chin against them to look down at Clarke, “It’s Sunday.”

“Evening shift,” Clarke says, “what time is it?”

“Almost nine,” Octavia says, “but I figured you might want to migrate to something that isn’t made of porcelain.”

Clarke hums in agreement when her friend lets out a light laugh, but the way Octavia looks at her, the tension in dark brows and the set of her chin even as it rests on her forearms, isn’t light at all. Octavia’s looking at Clarke like a three-legged puppy, and it takes Clarke a few seconds to remember why.

A few seconds, and then all the feelings Clarke wanted to forget last night, all the things she _successfully_ forgot last night, come back in full force.

Sometimes, drinking to forget means losing time. It means trading tongue-numbing shots and stretches of mindlessness for hours of your life. For the things you take, the Rumple Minze and the Jäger and the distractions, you get holes in your memory and time you can’t have back or make sense of, no matter how hard you try.

And the thing about losing time is, after all the drinking and the puking and passing out in your bathroom, you still wake up feeling like you’re in the moment you tried to run from. You wake up steeped in whichever problems you thought you could drown. And there’s probably vomit in your hair.

Now, Clarke remembers. She did the hard thing. She did the _right_ thing, she thinks, being honest with Raven, even though it’s not so easy to be convinced right now. She did the best she could, the only thing she could, and her friend hates her for it. Worse, Raven is still dating, living with, and waking up to the guy who seemed fine with lying to her face.

Clarke feels like an idiot.

“I’m sorry I was a disaster last night,” Clarke sighs, because she knows there’s no way she’d be in the bathtub if she wasn’t. Really, she still feels like a disaster.

“What do you remember?”

“The Deer’s Head, I guess. Too many bad decisions for one night,” Clarke says, trying to breathe in through her nose with enough force to keep all the vomit down.

“Maybe,” Octavia says, “especially the Jägermeister.”

The brunette fake-gags and Clarke knows she’s going to be right back in this bathroom later, hints of black licorice and shame taunting her as they come back up. 

“Never mention ‘Jägermeister’ to me again.”

Octavia laughs and then gives Clarke another of those pitiful smiles and asks, “Do you remember what you said last night? About Raven?”

“Oh,” Clarke says, any trace of a smile fading away. Another droplet of water splashes onto Clarke’s foot, and she doesn’t bother pulling away. 

Octavia sighs and reaches out to smooth her fingers over Clarke’s brow. It doesn’t help, doesn’t make it any easier for Clarke to keep her face from crumpling, but it’s a good sign that Octavia doesn’t hate her.

“This isn’t your fault, Clarke. None of it. Raven doesn’t get that right now, and I don’t know why, but you can’t honestly believe she hates you, right?”

“You didn’t see her, O. You didn’t hear her,” Clarke says, eyes welling with tears.

“You’re right, I didn’t, but I know you and I know her. She loves you, Clarkey. Even if she’s doing a shitty job of it right now.”

“I fucked her boyfriend, Octavia. Her ‘perfect guy’, and I ruined him for her. And when I tried to tell her, she said she was done with me.”

“You fucked a rando who you barely knew, Clarke. We’re in college. It happens. Did he ever say he had a girlfriend?”

“It’s not like I asked him—”

“Did he ever mention Raven?”

“No, but—”

“And did you ever talk about her to him?”

“Of course not, or I—”

“Exactly, Clarke. You didn’t know, because he didn’t tell you,” Octavia reminds her, “and, when you found out, you told her. That’s not on you. You didn’t cheat and you didn’t lie.”

“Then why do I feel like this,” Clarke asks, swiping at her eyes, “why do I feel so shitty?”

“Probably because you tried to drink your weight in booze,” Octavia chastises, shrugging and pulling her lips into a thin line. She softens back into pity and says, “And because you’re sad.”

“I’m kind of a homewrecker these days,” Clarke tries to joke around the tightness in her throat, “I don’t exactly deserve to be sad right now.”

Octavia doesn’t laugh with her. She sighs and rests the side of her face on her arms and says, “You said a lot of stuff like that last night, too.”

“I was drunk,” Clarke says, “I probably said a lot of things.”

“Yeah, you were drunk. You were sad, too. About Raven. And about Lexa.”

Clarke sinks further down into the tub, bringing her legs up at the knees to avoid any more droplets of water.

She remembers the way the brunette diligently held on to the rope in the corn maze, the brush of her fingers against Clarke’s teary cheeks, and later, against her hand.

She remembers laughing beside Lexa, and she remembers feeling like, maybe, just maybe, there was _something_ there. Not some carefully manufactured product of Operation Clexa, but something real. Something as simple as Clarke and Lexa, being themselves, in the same place, at the same time.

She also remembers guilt clouding green eyes, Lexa admitting she’d assumed the worst about Clarke, the crushing disappointment of knowing how little the other girl must think of her.

She has no idea what drunk Clarke had to say about all that.

“What’d I say about Lexa?”

“Not much,” Octavia says, “but you said that she knew before you did.”

“She and Anya both,” Clarke muses.

“You also said that Lexa thought you knew what you were doing.”

“They thought I was some sneaky, boyfriend stealing skank,” Clarke shrugs, “Not that they were that far off.”

“Maybe they both thought that, and, if they did, they’re idiots,” Octavia says flippantly.

“They’re your friends,” Clarke reminds her.

“So’s Raven, but she’s being an idiot right now. You’re my friend, but you’re being an idiot, too, if you believe any of that crap.”

“It’s not like I care what they think of me. It just caught me by surprise.”

“It sure seemed like you cared last night.”

Clarke looks up at the speckled ceiling, and says, “I don’t exactly love it when people think I’m a terrible person.”

“Funny,” Octavia says, shifting up to sit on the edge of the tub and staring down at Clarke, “You didn’t seem as upset about _people_ thinking you were a terrible person as you did about _Lexa_ thinking you were a terrible person.”

Clarke rolls her eyes and asks, “Are we really doing this right now?”

“Look, you’re upset about Raven, but you’re not _just_ upset about Raven. If you don’t talk about—”

At that Clarke finally wills herself to sit up. One good push from her elbows and one heroic struggle against nausea, and she’s rising enough to lean against the side of the tub, almost at Octavia’s eye level.

“Fine, O,” Clarke says, a little harshly, “it sucks, okay? It sucks to think you’re getting along with someone, that you’re getting to know them, and then finding out they basically think you’re trash. It fucking blows. Is that what you want me to say?”

“Clarke,” Octavia tries, but Clarke isn’t done.

“Do you want me to say that I thought there might be something there, but I was wrong? I was so wrong that I don’t know if she and I are even friends, and it’s a really shitty time for me to lose any more friends. Like, enormously shitty.”

“I know this sucks, but—”

“No, Octavia, you don’t,” Clarke says, fighting to keep herself from yelling, “you think I care what she thinks of me because of some stupid crush, but I don’t. I care because I thought she was my friend, and maybe she wasn’t. You think that Raven’s just being stubborn, and that she’ll get over it, but she won’t. She hates me. She blames _me_ , not Finn. It doesn’t matter what I did or didn’t do. She chose Finn,” she spits, “without so much as asking him if I was telling the truth. We can’t change that by talking it to death. We can’t fix that. _You_ can’t fix that, Octavia. I know you feel like this is your problem, too, but it isn’t, and I need you to back off!”

Octavia flinches at the force of Clarke’s words, and Clarke doesn’t miss the flash of hurt on her face. They’re both silent for a long stretch, Octavia’s eyes a little red and still trained on Clarke, who looks away in shame and brings her knees tight to her chest.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke says finally, after studying the lime build-up on the faucet. She’s crying again, and she doesn’t want to know whether Octavia is, too. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Octavia lets out a long sigh before pushing insistently against Clarke’s knee until the blonde is scooting over enough for Octavia to slide into the tub to face her. Octavia pulls her knees up to her chest, and the tub is small, so their legs brush and Clarke’s spine twists when she tries to scoot to give Octavia more space.

“I shouldn’t’ve pushed,” Octavia says, leaning forward against her knees to catch Clarke’s eye, “but you’re my best friend. Yeah, Bellamy and Wells and Raven are all up there, but you’re my best friend, and this isn’t you. You don’t get obliterated at gross bars, or cry in bathtubs, or yell at me for teasing you. And you damn sure don’t give up on your friends, even if they’re being idiots.”

“O—”

“Don’t ‘O’ me, Clarke. Raven was, well, I don’t know exactly know what, because I wasn’t there, but, whatever she was, she hurt you. You’re hurt, and I hate seeing you hurt, but she’s going to pull her head out of her ass. She’s going to dump Finn’s sorry ass, tell you how sorry she is, and then she’s going to bend over backwards trying to make it up to you. Are you really telling me that you’re giving up on her before all that can happen?”

“I’m not giving up,” Clarke says quietly, “but what if she doesn’t?”

“Then she isn’t as smart as we think she is,” Octavia tells her, knocking her knees against Clarke’s, “and that girl’s a goddamn genius.”

“She really is,” Clarke agrees, nudging Octavia’s back in the opposite direction.

“And, for the record, Lexa’s your friend, too. I mean, she’s not _me_ ,” Octavia says airily, gesturing to herself, “and she did kind of fuck up, thinking you’d do that to Raven, but she hasn’t known you for years. I know you aren’t sure whether you guys could ever be anything else, but she’s your friend, Clarke. I can feel it.”

“You and your vibes,” Clarke says, rolling her eyes.

“You know I’m rarely wrong about these things,” Octavia smirks.

Clarke rolls her eyes again, but smiles this time. Maybe talking her problems to death with Octavia isn’t the worst thing she could do. She feels about twenty percent less terrible than she did just after waking up. The nausea’s still there, along with plenty of guilt, but there’s some hope swirling around, too.

“I don’t want to ruin this moment, because I’m really relieved that you don’t look like you’re in mourning right now, but there’s puke in your hair, and you kind of smell like death,” Octavia says.

“I hate Jägermeister,” Clarke groans, “but I love you.”

“Duh,” Octavia agrees, “now, how about we get out of the tub? My shirt’s wet and my ass is falling asleep.”

The brunette pushes to her feet and climbs out, then turns to extend a hand to Clarke. She seems to think better of it though, because she pulls it away before Clarke can grab hold.

“On second thought, you should probably take care of that whole vomit-hair situation. I’ll make you some toast, though,” she offers, and then Octavia breezes out of the bathroom.

“Thank you,” Clarke calls out after her, but the other girl is already in the kitchen, and she doesn’t think her friend needs to hear it to know how grateful she is to have her.

Clarke smiles to herself. Raven’s _probably_ going to pull her head out of ass. Lexa’s _most likely_ her friend. And, if all else fails, at least Clarke still has Octavia and all the other people who love her, even when she has vomit in her hair.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke gets a surprise visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: it's like 4 am and I was really excited to update before another month could pass me by and less excited to carefully proofread.
> 
> Last chapter was Clexa lite, so this chapter is the opposite.
> 
> Thanks for reading and esp. for commenting!

Lexa hasn’t seen Clarke in days, not since she and Wells made their quick exit from the pumpkin patch, but, if she closes her eyes or allows her mind to wander, she can still see Clarke’s face, eyes welling up and brows knitting together, confusion and sadness stealing away her smile.

For days, she’s distracted by the memory of Clarke’s tears and the bite in her voice when she said _I’m not that person_. It’s guilt, maybe, or concern, gently gnawing at Lexa with every day that slips by without hearing about Clarke.

She hasn’t seen or heard from Raven, either, but it feels different, somehow. Raven’s heart is probably broken, but at least Lexa didn’t have to look _her_ in the eye and admit she saw it coming, and that she almost didn’t warn her.

Anya tells her she’s being ridiculous, that none of this is her fault and she shouldn’t feel so guilty about an easy mistake or get any more involved on either side of what seems to be the friendship equivalent of a raging dumpster fire, and Lincoln agrees, after they’ve filled him in on everything. Still, Lexa can’t seem to shake the weird, unsettled feeling inside her.

She spends days feeling distracted or guilty or concerned, and then, finally, she gets an idea.

Lexa doesn’t know if it’s smart to show up like this, but, here she is, unannounced on Clarke’s doorstep early Wednesday evening.

She’s standing here because, when Lincoln asked about the blonde during today’s morning run, after having been filled in by all three of the girls around him over the past few days, and after putting up with more than enough of Lexa's moping, Octavia admitted that Clarke was still upset about Raven refusing to talk to her, and that she was still pretending not to be. She’s standing here because, when Lincoln got Octavia talking for what felt like the first time all week, she’d said something like, “Clarke won’t say it out loud, but it’s killing her that her friend would jump to a conclusion like that about her,” and Lexa wasn’t entirely sure whether the other girl was only referring to Raven.

Maybe Lexa’s friends are right, and she’s reading too much into what Octavia said. Maybe, if Lexa had bothered to run this idea by them, they would’ve tried to talk her out of it; maybe they’d have even succeeded. Maybe Clarke hasn’t given Lexa a single thought since the pumpkin patch, and showing up like this will just annoy her. Maybe Lexa's making this situation way bigger in her head than it is in real life because she's an unruly ball of quiet anxiety sometimes.

But, Lexa doesn’t know all that.

All Lexa knows is that Clarke’s sad, and that she’s getting the silent treatment from a friend she never meant to hurt, and that her friends keep drawing the wrong conclusions about her.

Lexa knows she can’t take back anything she said or did or felt, but she can show Clarke that at least one of her friends knows that she jumped to the wrong conclusion, and that she’s sorry.

Lexa rings the doorbell as best as she can with her hands full, and she waits. It takes a few seconds, but she hears quiet shuffling from inside, and then the door opens just enough to reveal Clarke, hair pulled away from her face, in an over-sized crewneck.

“Hi,” Lexa says.

“Octavia’s not here,” Clarke tells her, and it isn’t harsh, exactly, but Lexa’s almost worried the blonde’s going to shut the door and walk away before she can explain herself.

All at once, she realizes that she’s practiced her apology no less than twenty times, but hasn’t even spared a thought for this moment, when Clarke is standing in the doorway, probably debating whether or not to let her in.

“I’m here for you,” Lexa blurts out, and wants to take back as soon as Clarke’s eyebrows start creeping up toward her hairline, “That sounded weird, sorry. I didn’t mean it in a weird way. I’m here to see you, though, not Octavia.”

“Oh,” Clarke asks, clearly confused even as she opens the door fully.

“I mean, I see Octavia all the time, but I haven’t seen you since—”

Clarke frowns and Lexa _really_ wishes she’d thought about this moment as hard as the apology she hopes she can offer Clarke.

“That was insensitive,” Lexa says, more to herself than to Clarke, “I just wanted to stop by, and Octavia said you’d be here, and—”

“You asked Octavia about me,” Clarke asks, leaning against the door frame with her arms crossed.

“I, uh, well, technically, Lincoln asked, but—”

“I’m the talk of the town these days, then,” Clarke asks, and Lexa wishes she was smirking or using that funny lilt that Lexa likes, but she isn’t. When she says it, Clarke rolls her eyes instead of meeting Lexa’s. Her voice is small and she lets out this huff of a laugh that, Lexa thinks, doesn’t sound remotely like her.

She’s not wrong, exactly, Lexa supposes.

Anya and Lincoln both have been subjected to plenty of Lexa's one-sided conversations revolving around Clarke in the last few days; Lincoln’s also been serving as Octavia’s occasional sounding board, not that he’ll go into detail about what they talk about when they’re alone together. Octavia also has the extended network of friends she shares with Clarke and Raven, who are probably curious about what’s going on with them. And Lexa can’t even begin to imagine what Raven’s been saying about Clarke, if she’s acknowledging the blonde at all.

Clarke’s probably not wrong, but Lexa finds herself desperately wishing she could convince her she was.

“You’re not, Clarke. He only asked because he knew I wanted to, but I didn’t think I could,” Lexa shrugs as best as she can with both arms weighed down and feeling heavier by the second.

“Why,” she asks, uncrossing her arms without relaxing her posture.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” Lexa says, taking a deep breath and letting go of all her overly prepared and almost theatrical apology speeches, “and to make sure you know how sorry I am, Clarke.”

“It’s fine,” the blonde shrugs, “like you said, you hardly knew me.”

“It’s not, though. You’re my friend, Clarke, and I’m sorry if what I thought…if what I said…” Lexa sighs, “if _I_ made this harder on you than it already was.”

The blonde doesn’t move at all, but her gaze pins Lexa in place like a physical presence for a few long seconds, and then, again, she asks, “Why?”

The load in Lexa’s arms is so heavy, and the look in Clarke’s eyes is making it hard for her to do anything other than stand stock-still and frown at the question.

“Why’d you think you couldn’t ask?”

_Because Octavia’s one of your best friends, and has barely spoken in my presence in days_. _Because, if Anya looked at someone who’d offended me the way Octavia looked at me during rugby practice, I’d think she was going to throat punch them rather than give them a shred of information about me_. _Because you probably think I’m a jerk_. _Because, if you don’t think I’m a jerk, it’s probably because you think nothing of me at all_.

Instead of admitting all that, Lexa just offers another weak shrug and says, “I don’t know.”

The intensity of Clarke’s gaze doesn’t let up for a few more seconds, but, when it does, the blonde looks down at the load Lexa’s carrying and asks, “Is that for me?”

Lexa nods and admits, “I didn’t think about how silly it was until I was a couple blocks away.”

“It’s not silly,” Clarke says, “it’s, uh, odd, maybe. But nice. Thoughtful.”

“So, uh, can I come in? It’s kind of heavy.”

“Oh, shit, of course,” Clarke says, crossing the threshold to lighten some of Lexa’s load and then retreating into the house.

Lexa follows right behind her.

 

 

“I might’ve been a little overzealous,” Lexa warns, as she watches Clarke pull things out of the backpack she’d brought with her. There’s newspaper spread across most of the kitchen floor, crinkling and shifting with Clarke as she lays out supplies between them.

Clarke looks over at her and grins for the first time all day. She holds up the brand new deluxe pumpkin carving kit Lexa bought earlier that day, arches her brow, and asks, “Just a little?”

Lexa can feel her cheeks warm. She always does things like this, goes overboard when she’s nervous. She looks away and brushes a speck of dirt off her warty pumpkin. There’s already an ice cream scoop, a melon baller, votive candles, a long lighter, and a mesh bag of slightly rusty carving tools laid out on the newspaper.

“My parents had a bunch of this stuff on hand, but the kit came with stencils,” she shrugs.

“So it did,” Clarke laughs, inspecting the packaging, “and two serrated carving knives. Fancy. Worth every penny, I'm sure.”

“I told you it was silly,” Lexa says, putting a hand through her hair. It felt silly on Saturday, taking home the veiny-looking pumpkin Clarke had forgotten and putting it in Lincoln’s trunk with all the others, including the one Anya wasn’t sure Raven would still want, but carried anyway, and it feels sillier now, after Lexa’s carried it, plus her own, and five pounds of supplies all the way to Clarke’s house.

“Are you kidding,” Clarke asks, looking at her incredulously, “I would’ve killed for a carving kit like this when I was a kid.”

The blonde passes the kit to Lexa along with a pair of scissors from one of the drawers while she keeps pulling things out of Lexa’s backpack. The brunette does her part, cutting away plastic and untwisting ties, while Clarke fishes out the bags of candy Lexa brought.

“I don’t know your process, but my mom always buys one bag of candy corn and one of candy pumpkins when we carve jack-o-lanterns. She says it doesn’t feel like fall without them,” Lexa explains.

Clarke nods and says, “Smart woman.”

When the blonde has effectively emptied the entire backpack, Lexa divvies up the tools and they get started, each in their own corner of the small kitchen, working quietly while the playlist Clarke chooses runs in the background.

Lexa isn’t spying, exactly, but she looks over a few times, when Clarke seems particularly immersed in whatever she’s doing. She’s impressively efficient, already drawing some design onto the surface of her pumpkin while Lexa is still elbow deep in stringy guts, and making her first incisions before Lexa can even pick a stencil.

Lexa should be concentrating on her own inability to cut in a straight line, but, more than a few times, she pauses to marvel at Clarke’s serious expression, the thoughtful frown she wears when she leans in closer to her pumpkin and the way she blows away the wisps of blonde hair that occasionally fall across her face instead of swiping at them with orange-tinted hands that never seem to still.

The brunette does her best to focus on her own work, even as a simplistic stencil design morphs into something barely recognizable under her clumsy cuts.

“Okay,” Clarke says after a while, “I think I’m done.”

Lexa, who actually finished before Clarke because she realized how much worse it got every time she tried to make a slight adjustment, grimaces and says, “Me too, I think.”

“Are you going to show me,” Clarke asks.

“Count of three,” Lexa asks, but the blonde is already rotating her pumpkin to reveal a design that was definitely not included in the stencil package.

“Oh, wow,” Lexa says, not moving to turn her pumpkin around.

Instead of a face or a ghost or a witch flying over the moon, one entire side of Clarke’s pumpkin is designed into a portrait of a house on a hill. She’s carved window arches and shutters, even tiles on different sections of the roof. Gnarled trees twist in the background, and small bats fly underneath a full moon.

“It’s amazing,” Lexa tells her, “How’d you even do that?”

Clarke shrugs and says, “I just wish I’d made the moon a little smaller.”

Lexa can barely contain her disbelief, so she turns her own pumpkin around and says, “You’re ridiculously talented.”

Clarke takes in Lexa’s design, the asymmetric cuts and too-wide holes and doesn’t say anything for a few very long seconds. The blonde blinks a lot, and Lexa swears she almost laughs, but seems to gather her wits very carefully before saying, “You’re, uh, very enthusiastic.”

“That bad?”

“Not bad, necessarily,” Clarke says, “it’s actually very…unique. Why does it have four eyes?”

“Those are eyebrows,” Lexa tells her, pointing to the broad, open rectangles above blunt ovals, “I couldn’t get them to match, and then the knife slipped, and everything went downhill very quickly.”

“It has character,” Clarke says, “I like it.”

“Pumpkin carving has never been one of my strengths,” Lexa says, “even after years of practice.”

“You didn’t have to do this, you know,” Clarke says, “carve pumpkins with me. I know I was kind of,” she clears her throat, “upset, or whatever, on Saturday, but I didn’t mean to make you feel like you had to—”

“You didn’t,” Lexa interrupts, “Really, Clarke. I know I didn’t have to, but I wanted to. You wanted me to know that you weren’t the type of person to go behind a friend’s back, and I wanted you to know that I’m not the type of person to hurt my friend without apologizing for it. The pumpkins just gave me a reason to say it in person.”

“Raven still isn’t talking to me,” Clarke admits quietly, “we’re assigned to the same table in chem lab, and she won’t even look in my direction. I wouldn’t be surprised if you thought I was a terrible person.”

Lexa frowns, “I don’t, though. Far from it, actually.”

Clarke bites her lip.

“It’s just stupid, all of this. I didn’t know, and now O feels like she’s stuck in the middle, and everybody’s being all…” her eyes sort of bulge and she sighs heavily, “Ugh, it’s just so stupid and I don’t know how to fix it and now I’m ruining this nice gesture of good nature and pity with all my complaining.” She rolls her eyes and adds, “I’m swear I’m not usually like this.”

“I don’t pity you, Clarke,” Lexa reminds her, “I just figured you could use a friend who isn’t being all…” she mimics Clarke’s bulging-eyes and shrugs.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. Just work some of your magic on these eyebrows?”

Clarke grins at for her for the second time all day, even bigger than the she did the first time, and Lexa smiles right back.

Clarke scoots closer, tilting Lexa’s pumpkin back to look into its wide face.

“Groucho, here, might need more magic than I have in my whole body,” Clarke muses.

“I’m not paying you to mock me, Clarke,” Lexa jokes.

“I didn’t realize you were paying me at all,” Clarke counters.

Lexa shakes the bag of candy corn and says, “cold, hard, artificially flavored compensation for your artistic services.”

“I’m feeling very trapped right now,” the blonde says with an impressively straight face, “but I guess that’s an offer I can’t refuse.”

Clarke wiggles her fingers into the opening of the bag in Lexa’s hand to steal a fistful of the candy.

“They’re kind of gross, but also addictive,” Clarke says mid-chew. She crosses her legs and moves a couple of Lexa’s tools to rest beside her.

“They’re all yours,” Lexa says emphatically, reaching for the unopened bag of pumpkins, “I eat about ten of them each year before I remember how much I hate them. I can probably eat half a bag of these little things, though.”

“You do this every year,” Clarke laughs, dragging a carving knife across the surface, “forget how much you hate them, and then hate them all over again?”

“It wouldn’t feel like fall without them,” Lexa says, scooting beside Clarke to watch her work.

Clarke was wrong when she said it might take more magic than she had in her whole body. It only takes her fifteen minutes to smooth out the jaggedness of Lexa’s cuts, and to rescale the rest of the facial features on Lexa’s pumpkin until they’re far more proportionate to the huge, gaping eyebrows. It’s still not great to look at, nowhere near as artistic as the house on a hill, but, by the time Clarke’s done with it, it’s undeniably better than what Lexa managed.

“They’ll probably rot long before Halloween,” Lexa says when they’re both outside, positioning their pumpkins up on either side of Clarke’s doorstep, since Lexa’s will look far better there than cooped up in her and Anya’s apartment, and dropping the candles inside, “but this was fun.”

“It was,” Clarke agrees as she strategically angles the long lighter through a carved window to light hers. She looks over at Lexa and says, “You know, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do today. Usually I try to get some work done at Meadowlark but, well, Finn works there, and, after everything, it’s not like I can go back. You really saved me from being bored and unproductive.”

“I go to the library sometimes, on Wednesday nights, after my writing center appointments are finished,” Lexa tells her, “it’s not a bad place to be productive, even if it gets a little a boring sometimes.”

“The library,” Clarke repeats, “I don’t know if I’ve ever set foot in it.”

“You should join me some time,” Lexa says, “there’s even a coffee cart. I mean, it’s not organic fair trade coffee, or anything, but it’s hot, free, and served by a sweet octogenarian named Jean, instead of a shaggy-haired fuckboy, so there’s that.”

“Wow,” Clarke laughs, “You really know how to make an offer. I guess junior year’s as good a time as any to finally make use of the library. Maybe I’ll have to join you next Wednesday?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Lexa smiles, and Clarke smiles back.

When the blonde waves her off for the night, it’s with Clarke’s number programmed into her phone, because serendipitously running into each other on campus and showing up at each other’s homes unannounced isn’t nearly as nice as being able to send a text, here and there.

Lexa feels lighter, maybe because she isn’t carting around a couple of pumpkins in addition to her overpacked bag, but maybe not because of that at all.

 

 

It’s easy being Clarke’s friend.

It’s surprising, in a way, because Lexa’s been thinking about it as a sort of hypothetical for weeks on end, and her mind’s been creating these road blocks that made it seem impossible. Like, she thought she _could_ be the blonde’s friend, but only if the other girl wasn’t betraying Raven on purpose, and then she _could_ be Clarke’s friend if the other girl was willing to forgive Lexa’s assumption, and she _could_ be her friend if the weird fluttering in Lexa’s stomach would stop long enough to let her act like a normal person around her.

But now, Lexa knows Clarke _isn’t that person_. She knows the girl’s forgiven her. And the fluttering, well, _that_ isn’t gone, exactly, but it’s gentler, now. It’s barely even noticeable, until Clarke looks at her a certain way, and, even then, Lexa likes being Clarke’s friend enough to ignore it.

It’s also unsurprising because Lexa already knew Clarke was funny, just like she knew the blonde was easy to talk to, and an attentive listener. She’s also, it turns out, an ideal study partner.

It’s been over three weeks since Lexa sat on Clarke’s kitchen floor making a mess of her poor pumpkin, and they’ve spent a lot of time together. Lexa was nervous at first, but when Octavia off-handedly mentioned that Clarke had been practically haunting their kitchen table trying to finish some report on Friday, or, maybe not off-handedly since she’d said it straight to Lexa instead of talking through Lincoln when he crashed another of their morning runs, the brunette made good use of Clarke’s phone number and invited her to get acquainted with the library a little earlier than they’d planned.

Lexa gave her a short tour, tapping into her well-practiced, borderline saccharine, Polaris student-worker charm. Clarke wasn’t crazy about the slightly musty smell of old books and mid-term-crazed students, and she did hit her head on one of the hobbit-sized doors into the stacks, where the reference books are tucked away, but she laughed a lot, too, and she agreed that Jean was a highlight of the place, even if the coffee wasn’t.

They ended up settling on opposite sides of a small table with their laptops and their coffees and their textbooks. The time flew by, everything as quiet around them as expected for a Friday, and, when they’d both made enough progress in their work to call it a night, they agreed that studying together should be a regular occurrence.

So, a few times a week, when they’re both free from class and work and their extra-curricular commitments, they meet up at the library.

Studying with Clarke isn’t like studying with Anya, who takes a million breaks to _casually_ wind up browsing next to some hottie in the non-fiction section, or like studying with Lincoln, who rarely has things to work on outside of his student-teaching and, instead spends his time bobbing his head obnoxiously to music Lexa can hear clear across the table.

When she studies, Clarke is quiet and still and, most of the time, almost as unflinchingly focused as she’d been while dragging a carving knife through a pumpkin. When she gets off-task, she doodles, usually in this sketch book that Lexa’s seen her bring out, but sometimes in the margins of her books, too. Lexa never asks to see them, but, a few times, she catches a peek across the table, and she’s floored all over again by how talented Clarke is, and by how nonchalant she is about it.

They’re friends, now. Proper friends, who see each other on purpose during the week, and friends who are learning little things about each other’s lives. Lexa’s enjoying the hell out of it, even if Lincoln and Anya won’t quit reminding her that she sometimes talks about Clarke like friendship is only a small part of what Lexa wants from the blonde. She’s had to remind them several times that she’s very firmly anti-romance, and that Clarke’s not looking for that right now, either.

They’re friends, now, and it’s fun, even if Lexa can tell that Clarke still gets sad sometimes. The blonde is just so open around her, these days. Lexa gets to see her with her guard down for hours at a time, and then, something small happens to remind her of Raven, and she gets guarded and reserved all over again.

Almost four weeks since their disastrous pumpkin patch outing, and Raven Reyes is on speaking terms with just about everyone on campus it seems, except for Clarke Griffin.

She still steadily ignores her in their Chemistry lab, and Clarke even sees her walk all the way around to the far doors of the building where Raven has Design Methodology while Clarke has Psychology instead of simply walking in at the same time as the blonde.

Lexa was even taken aback to see Raven at her own apartment one night last week, watching some gory horror film with Anya, and only partially because she couldn’t remember the last time she’d come home to her roommate hosting a fully clothed guest that wasn’t Lincoln or Nyko or Octavia, but Raven had smiled and cracked some joke and acted like it was the most natural sight in the world.

Clarke wasn’t surprised when Lexa brought it up on their walk to the library one night. She expected as much, because, even with Octavia trying to be Switzerland, the brunette still kept Clarke in the loop enough to know that Raven was living in fantasy land, choosing not to believe that Finn was garbage while also pretending that Clarke didn’t exist.  
Lexa didn’t bother to tell her that, according to Anya, Raven’s seemed off since everything happened. “Off” was hardly the same thing as “mortified, apologetic, and ready to be friends again”, and she didn’t want to get Clarke’s hopes up.

When they started this friendship in earnest, without the silly, made-up limitations Lexa thought were standing in the way, she decided she’d be honest and upfront with Clarke about all the important things. It’s always worked with her family, and it’s always worked Anya and Lincoln, so, Lexa figured, her friendship with Clarke shouldn’t be different in that regard, even if it felt different in a lot of other ways.

Raven being “off”, in Anya’s opinion, was the one, small exception to that rule. She thought bringing it up would do more harm than good, so she didn’t bring it up.

Lexa regrets making it her one exception when, one day shy of a month after the pumpkin patch debacle, Lexa gets a phone call from Clarke.

They’re friends now, they spend time together, and they text and Snapchat when appropriate, but Clarke never calls Lexa.

“Hello,” the brunette smiles into the receiver, “this better not be a butt-dial.”

“Lexa,” Clarke says, her voice ragged, “It’s Raven. She’s missing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've maybe phrased it in exactly these words (because I'm touched, but also unoriginal), but I've gotten some top-notch comments that have really informed where I want to go with this story and with these characters, and quite a few of them have brought up important questions about here Clarke and Raven are going from here.
> 
> I'm going to try to answer a good number of those questions over the next few chapters, and I'm sure you lot will keep me thinking.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raven's gone missing after finding out about Finn's serial cheating, and Clarke intends to find her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a short chapter, but (after getting unexpectedly busy with a new project) I didn't want to leave you guys stuck in a perpetual cliffhanger.
> 
> Very Clarke/Raven focused chapter with little hints of Lexa and Octavia.

“Lexa,” Clarke says, her voice ragged, “It’s Raven. She’s missing.”

“What,” Lexa asks, all the humor drained from her voice.

A few minutes ago, it was Clarke answering the phone, ready to launch into some joke with Octavia before the brunette cut in with the news.

A month of denial didn’t protect Raven from the truth.

The way Octavia tells it, Raven and Finn’s roommate, Kyle, the one who’s always almost blowing their circuit breaker up, caught Finn sneaking some girl into the house in the middle of the day when everyone else was out. He heard the idiot moaning and groaning in the bedroom he and Raven share, and made it down to the engineering lab and back, with Raven in tow, before they could even finish.

Octavia doesn’t know exactly how it went down, just that it was bad. There was an argument, and, by the time Monty and Jasper made it home, Finn was crying on the curb in front of the house in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts because Kyle locked him out, and Raven was in the wind.

That was yesterday.

Now, nobody’s seen Raven in over twenty-four hours.

The boys agreed to give her space, but, when she didn’t come home to sleep, and failed to answer her phone all morning, they called Octavia, and the four of them went looking.  
Jasper looked for her at the lab. Monty checked with some of their classmates. Kyle asked around at the body shop. Octavia tried all the local bars.

Clarke tries not to take it personally that she’s finding out two whole hours after Octavia and the others started looking, since she figures everyone else is aware that Clarke’s probably the last person Raven would want to find her. Second to last, actually, if Raven’s finally on the same page as everybody else when it comes to Finn.

Doesn’t mean it stings any less.

Clarke calls Lexa for three reasons. First, because Lexa’s seen Raven more recently than Clarke has, and because it’s not implausible that Raven might be laying low at Lexa and Anya’s apartment to avoid all the friends who have been painfully, but quietly, aware of this disaster waiting to happen. Second, because she’s home alone, more disheveled than usual, scrambling around for the car keys to join the search party, and she could use a second pair of eyes and a sounding board when she finds them. The third reason, and this just might be the biggest, is that, for the last month, or at least the last few weeks, Lexa’s the only person who hasn’t been tiptoeing around Clarke.

Lexa’s been the only one of Clarke’s friends to look at her like she’s whole, even when she feels sort of broken.

Wells still hasn’t made Clarke talk any more than she’s wanted to. Octavia hasn’t stopped trying to make her talk, even though Clarke suspects she realized weeks ago that talking wasn’t changing anything. Bellamy’s still willing to help Clarke run away from her feelings however she wants to do it. But, even when they’re doing their best, and even when they’re being the most predictable versions of their lovable selves, all three of them still look at her funny, sometimes.

Clarke thinks it’s because none of them can see her without also seeing a distinctly Raven-shaped void, too, but maybe that’s not it at all.

Maybe it’s not just a void they’re seeing in Clarke. Maybe it’s because, even though they’re old friends, a lot of living their lives together hinges on having Raven there, too. Whether she’s outsmarting them or finding the innuendo they’d otherwise never catch or meddling in their love lives, they’ve all gotten used to her being there.

Or maybe it’s because they’ve all seen what Clarke is like when she loses someone. This isn’t the same, not even close, but it isn’t without certain similarities.

Maybe they’ve all been expecting Clarke to crack, to fracture and then shatter into jagged little pieces, and they’re all preparing themselves for the work of having to put her together again.

She can’t say, not for certain.

Lexa doesn’t have all that history. She hasn’t seen Clarke in shambles, not really. She doesn’t know enough of Clarke to spot that void, or at least Clarke doesn’t think she does. Their friendship is still just _theirs_. It’s new, and it’s growing, but it’s only theirs, and they’ve developed a dynamic that Raven hasn’t added to yet.

Clarke calls Lexa because, even if the brunette knows Clarke doesn’t feel it, she looks at Clarke like she’s strong. She speaks to her like she’s capable. She doesn’t try to convince Clarke that Raven’s on her way to coming to her senses, or remind her that Finn is a waste of a good head of hair. She treats Clarke like, no matter what happens, she’s going to get through it, and Lexa’s just happy to watch her find a way to do it.

Raven’s voice echoes through her mind sometimes, reminding Clarke that Lexa deserves _better than her bullshit_. She knows Raven’s probably right, that Clarke’s a bit of a mess, and Lexa’s brilliantly unmessy, but Clarke can’t help herself. She’ll soak up as much of Lexa’s kindness, as much of her certainty, as much of her resolve as she can, because a friendship with Lexa has dwarfed her highest hopes, and, even if she doesn’t _need_ it, she wants it too much to throw it away.

Clarke finds the car keys on the hook beside the door where they belong, because Wells drove it last and didn’t toss them on a countertop like Clarke always does. She’s explained as much as she knows to Lexa, and the brunette is at her otherwise empty apartment, waiting for Clarke to pick her up so they can go looking for Raven, or at least the truck she shares with Finn, the one she took off with yesterday.

“I’m leaving my house now,” Clarke tells her, as she pulls her purse across her shoulder.

“Okay. Drive carefully,” Lexa says, even though they’re really only separated by a few blocks.

“I will,” Clarke promises, pulling open the front door, but she won’t have to make the drive after all.

Hours of being looked for, and Raven Reyes is right here, less than two feet away, on Clarke’s doorstep.

Raven is right here, and she’s been crying.

It feels like she’s hallucinating after a month of only seeing short glimpses of her, but Clarke knows that messy high ponytail. She knows that beat up red bomber jacket, and those distressed gray jeans. She knows those big, brown eyes, even if she’s never seen them quite so sad and dull.

“Hey, can I call you back later,” Clarke says, a little breathlessly, into the receiver, “Raven’s here.”

“Raven’s there? She’s at your house,” Lexa asks, and Clarke hums, not taking her eyes off the girl at the door while Lexa sighs in relief, “Okay. Good. That’s good. Do you want me to send word to Octavia and the others?”

“Mm-hm,” Clarke hums into her phone again.

“Okay,” Lexa says again, “I’ve got it covered. And Clarke?”

“Mm-hm?”

“You’ve got this.”

It’s never a question for Lexa.

When they hang up, Clarke tries to match the brunette’s confidence in her while she waits for Raven to say something.

Watery, bloodshot brown eyes are trained on Clarke’s for a long moment, and then Raven breaks the silence with one word.

“Hey.”

 

There’s a loose thread on the bean bag chair in Clarke’s living room. She’s never noticed it before, probably because she doesn’t often find herself choosing the blue blob in the corner over the perfectly comfortable couch opposite the TV. Right now, it’s the most fascinating thing in the world, this loose thread. It’s the only thing she can look at, aside from the carpet, without feeling sick with nerves.

Every few seconds, Clarke reaches out to touch it, maybe even to pull it, and, seconds after that, she reminds herself how much more it could unravel. It takes every bit of her willpower to let it go without making it any worse.

Raven is on the couch, still sniffling, perched on the edge of her seat, back so straight it looks like it hurts. And, based on how labored her body looked limping past Clarke into the house, it probably does. She looks like she hasn’t been here before. Like she hasn’t danced around this living room or marathoned every Harry Potter movie from that couch. Like she didn’t install the small key hooks that Clarke always forgets to use, just beside the door.

The clothes and the eyes and the hair are undeniably Raven, but the way she’s carrying herself, the way she’s haunting this room silently instead of exploding right into it and making it her own? The way she looks everywhere but Clarke? That’s not Raven. Not even close.

She seems so foreign to Clarke, so alien and unfamiliar that the awkward silence they’ve been sharing doesn’t feel as surprising as it probably should.

Clarke just wants her friend back.

“I hate chemistry without you.”

Raven’s voice snaps Clarke out of her head after what feels like a lifetime. Clarke hates sitting through chemistry without Raven, too, especially lab, but it isn’t like Clarke had a hand in that decision making. Clarke didn’t move to the other side of the lecture hall, or poach one of the few third-wheel lab partners, or end post-lab lunch dates.

Well, Clarke didn’t _intentionally_ choose any of those things. Whether Raven believes her or not.

She picks at the frayed thread, waits for Raven to say whatever it is she really wants to say.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Raven says, voice barely loud enough to carry across the living room. Those brown eyes catch Clarke’s again, and they’re redder than Clarke’s ever seen them. “Any of it.”

Raven eyes dart away, she stares into the blank television screen, crinkles her forehead, like she’s trying to make sense of something complex. It isn’t a face Clarke sees often.

“I’m supposed to be smart,” she says in a small voice before Clarke can formulate a response, “I’m supposed to be a genius, you know? Like, I’ve built engines with my bare hands. I’ve mastered formulas that half the eggheads in the engineering department have to keep written on notecards. Even improved on some of them. I was learning simple math when other kids were in diapers. I’ve been reading physics texts since before I hit puberty.”

Clarke releases her gentle hold on that one loose string and watches Raven’s eyebrows knit together.

“People are always telling me how smart I am, how smart I’m supposed to be, and I’m always agreeing, because there’s tons of evidence to support their theory. But this happened. I’m supposed to be the smartest person in the room, but I’ve been so stupid.”

She laughs humorlessly and looks downs at her hands, which are folded across her lap. Clarke watches Raven nervously smooth her right hand over her left, her thumb brushing over each knuckle individually. Clarke wonders if she’s counting them, but doesn’t ask.

“I know I need to apologize,” Raven says, still studying her hands, “but it’s not enough. I’m supposed to be a genius, but I don’t know how to make it enough.”

“It’s fine,” Clarke says reflexively, getting Raven to look up at her, “At least you know the truth. That’s all I wanted.”

It isn’t fine. Clarke knows it isn’t fine, and she doesn’t want to lie, but she hates seeing Raven like this. She hates that, a month after the fact, she’s still causing her friend pain, however indirectly.

She hates that, no matter what variation of this conversation they end up having, they’re both going to walk away feeling shitty for what they’ve done and what they’ve failed to do. They can’t un-hurt each other. Clarke can’t un-fuck Finn. Raven can’t un-say the words echoing in Clarke’s mind. They can’t un-live a month of existing separately.

It isn’t fine, but Clarke doesn’t want to admit that if it’s just going to make everything hurt more.

“We both know it’s not,” Raven says, pumping the brakes on Clarke’s attempt to steamroll over this whole thing. “I shouldn’t have said any of those things to you. I didn’t even mean them.”

Clarke didn’t have to be the one to admit it, but she was right. It makes everything hurt more.

“Why did you, then,” she asks, “If you didn’t mean any of it, where’d it come from?”

Clarke wants her friend back, probably more than she wants anything these days, but there isn’t a bone in her body that doesn’t think Raven meant what she said.

Raven’s sad eyes are trained on Clarke’s face, and Clarke wishes she could do anything other than keep sinking into this goddamn bean bag.

She wishes she could sit as ramrod straight as Raven, demanding an answer that she’s been wondering about for a month. She wishes she could be as stone-faced as Octavia is when she’s hurt or angry. She wishes she could hold herself as rigidly and sternly as Lexa does when some guy approaches her at the library. She wants to be strong and confident and intimidating, because she _deserves_ an answer, and they can’t get anywhere until she has it.

But all Clarke can do is be practically enveloped by sporadically shifting beans, and press her lips together into a line that she can’t keep from trembling.

“I don’t get how you could’ve called me a dumb blonde if you didn’t mean it, Raven, but I’ve been thinking about it for so long without luck that maybe I’m just too stupid to understand,” Clarke says, her cheeks flaming with the anger she can’t seem to push down.

Raven flinches when Clarke speaks. She sniffles pitifully, but she doesn’t take her eyes off the blonde.

“I don’t think you’re stupid, Clarke. Everyone calls me a genius. There are things that come easy to me, work that doesn’t burn me out as quickly as other people, and it’s great sometimes, you know? It’s my thing. It’s always been my thing. Octavia is fearless. Monty is sweet. Jasper’s silly. Wells is the most patient person I’ve ever met. And I’m supposed to be the smart one. But then there’s you.”

Raven’s teeth drag over her top lip, those eyebrows knit together again, and then she’s leaning forward, bending toward Clarke with her elbows digging into her thighs.

“ _You_ think you’re just a pretty face. _You_ think people like you for your boobs, or how you are in the sack, and you’re so fucking wrong. You’ve always been so wrong, and I’ve never been able to convince you, none of us have. You’re not stupid, Clarke, and you’re a hell of a lot more than a pretty face. If anything, I’m insanely jealous of how much more you are than your _one thing_ ,” Raven says, reminding Clarke that, even under a metric ton of bravado, Raven can be just as insecure as they both know Clarke can be, “but you hurt me, and all I knew was that I wanted to hurt you back. I said those things because I knew how they’d make you feel.”

“What’d you say to Finn, then,” Clarke barks out, “I hurt you, so you hurt me back. Fine. Which of his insecurities did you throw in his face for hurting you, Raven? I’ve felt sick since the moment I found out, but Finn didn’t have to find out. He knew. He made all of this happen, and I would love to know what deep dark thing you dug up to throw at him.”

“It’s not going to make you feel better,” Raven says quietly.

“You might know how to hurt me, but you don’t get to decide what’s going to make me feel better. Not right now,” the blonde snaps.

Clarke’s face and chest feel hotter than they’ve ever been, but she isn’t crying. She might not be able to force her body into looking stronger than she feels, but she’s holding onto these tears with everything she has, not letting them fall until she’s ready.

Raven takes a deep breath and blinks away her own tears.

“I didn’t,” she admits with another of those pitiful sniffles, “I couldn’t say a word to him. Finn was supposed to be…god, Clarke, Finn was supposed to be _everything_. He was supposed to be so much more than he turned out to be, and seeing it with my own eyes made me so sick that I just ran away. I caught him with some random in the bed we shared, and I ran.”

Raven loses the battle with her tears, even as Clarke keeps fighting.

“There’s so much you don’t know about me, Clarke, but Finn knew it all. He knew it all, and he loved me anyway, or I thought he did.”

Tears are streaming down Raven’s face. Snot, too, even though she tries to wipe it away with the sleeve of her jacket.

Raven’s right again. It doesn’t make Clarke feel better. She knew almost instantly that Raven was going to choose Finn, and she knew that things were going to blow up in her face, but there’s nothing comforting about this.

“It’s funny,” Clarke says, “how upset you are about Finn not loving you like he you thought he did, considering how you were supposed to be my friend. I trusted you to know the things that made me feel insecure without using them against me.”

“I know,” Raven whispers, “and I’m sorry. One of the prettiest girls I know, one of the smartest and most creative people in my life, someone who is a million times better than she thinks she is, told me she was sleeping with Finn and I panicked. I picked him before he could pick you, and it was the dumbest thing I’ve ever done, Clarke.”

“Why,” Clarke asks, barely keeping her voice from raising into a yell, “Why pick him? If this is who he is, if this is how he treats you then why would you pick him? I wouldn’t have cared if Finn picked me, Raven. I don’t give a shit about Finn. I care about you.”

“I fucked up,” Raven says back, “I didn’t want to lose you, but I thought I _couldn’t_ lose Finn.”

“I was honest. I told you the truth as soon as I found out. Finn lied to you, and he cheated on you, and you still threw me away to keep him,” Clarke says, “I’m having a hard time understanding why.”

“I was going to spend the rest of my life with him,” Raven says, voice wavering. “People think I’m a genius because I’m always thinking, because I’m always thinking faster than the people around me, and it’s always been my thing, and that’s fine, but sometimes it’s so exhausting. Finn was always the one thing I didn’t have to think about. I didn’t have to question whether he loved me, or whether he wanted me, or whether we were going to end up together.

“From the moment I met him, Finn’s been my family. What you tried to tell me, it meant I had to rethink everything. It meant that the _one_ thing I wasn’t always picking apart and putting under a microscope and trying to make an experiment out of was just another question.”

Shoulders hunched and head dipped, Raven lifts her eyes to look at Clarke and sighs.

There are things Raven doesn’t really talk about, not with Clarke or any of the rest of their shared friend group. Her leg is one of them. Her family is the other. There’s a story there, Clarke knows, a single story that connects those two usually taboo topics, something that Raven lived, with Finn at her side.

“He was the first person to love me without wanting anything for it. He was the first person to want _me_. I wasn’t ready for him to stop,” she shrugs, “He’s always been my family, Clarke, and for a long time, he was my only family. Losing that scared the shit out of me. Enough to forget that you’re my family, too.”

Clarke loses the fight against her tears. Maybe she won’t get that story about Raven’s family today, but finding out she’s a part of it is a bright, shining consolation prize.

“I’m so mad at you,” Clarke reminds Raven through wet sobs, “So mad.”

“I know,” Raven chokes out, “I fucked this up. I mean, all of this is Finn’s fault, and that,” she huffs out a watery breath, “that really sucks, but I know how badly I fucked this up, too. An apology isn’t enough, and I don’t know what’s going to make this better, but, whatever it is, I’ll do it. I was awful, and I’m so sorry, but I’ll do anything to make it up to you. Whatever it takes.”

It takes less than a second for Clarke to be up, out of the depths of the bean bag chair, and launching herself onto the couch, half tackling Raven. The other girl lets out her biggest sob yet when Clarke’s arms wrap around her neck, squeezing as tightly as she can without choking her, careful not to twist her spine too much.

Clarke can feel the way Raven’s crying wracks her body. Her friend’s arms snake around her body, tight enough to hurt, and a tear stained cheek presses against hers, but Clarke doesn’t care.

“Don’t forget this time,” Clarke says, “that’s what you can do to make it up to me.”

“I won’t,” Raven promises.

“And call your boyfriends by their first names,” she jokes, in what she hopes is a light voice.

Raven laughs wetly in her ear.

“First and last names from now on.”

“And you can’t try to hurt me like that again,” Clarke says, not letting Raven go just yet, “I don’t care if you’re mad or jealous or whatever. I love you, but that doesn’t mean you get to make me feel like shit.”

“Never again, Clarke. I swear.”

“And you can’t avoid me like you did.”

“I won’t,” Raven says.

The lock on the front door turns, and Octavia comes barreling in with tears in her eyes, just barely kicking the front door closed before she’s wrapping an arm around each girl, half on the couch, her head resting over both Clarke’s and Raven’s.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” she blurts, pulling her friends closer to her chest, “but I was peeking through the window to make sure you didn’t kill each other, and I’m just so happy you’re getting your shit together.”

Clarke and Raven both laugh and loosen their hold on each other to let their friend squeeze in closer.

“This means we’re going to be okay, right,” Octavia asks.

“This means we’re family,” Clarke says, “and we’ll get through this together.”

“Thank God,” Octavia says, “we’re all better together.”

“We really are,” Raven agrees, “a million times better.”

Clarke doesn’t know how long is too long to hang onto two of her favorite people in the world, but she thinks she can get away with a little more time.

Her anger doesn’t evaporate. Words she’d rather not hear still echo in her head, and Clarke knows it’ll take more than a group hug to really move on, but, god, this is the least broken she’s felt in weeks. That Raven-shaped void in Clarke is finally full again.

“I don’t want to wreck this moment,” Octavia says, “but you should both probably get tested.”

That pretty much ends the group hug.

The three of them walk to the clinic on campus, not super worried, since both Clarke and Raven were safe and careful, but grateful to be making the trip together.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke tries to get back on track with her friends. Meanwhile, Lexa's friends won't stop teasing her about the massive crush she says she doesn't have on Clarke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, folks! Life really gets in the way sometimes, but one of my favorite authors in another, much quieter, fandom updated this morning and it made my whole Halloween 5x better, so I figured I'd pay it forward.
> 
> I've been working on like half of this chapter and bits of the next two for months, while the other half of this chapter came surprisingly easily to me in the few hours between work and my Halloween plans, so there are parts that I'm really proud of that have been edited fairly well and parts that I figuratively vomited onto my keyboard while slamming tea and watching snow fall.
> 
> On that note, I got a beta! pristinelyungifted has been looking things over and helping me to fix some typos and talk out some of my plans for this thing, so hopefully I confuse y'all a whole lot less. It's pretty nice.
> 
> Happy belated Halloween and happy reading!

“You know there are like forty-seven cheat codes you could be using, right,” Raven asks when Wells’ character gets shot for what seems like the thousandth time.

“So you’ve said,” Wells says, passing the controller back to Raven. She slips the headset off his matted hair and fits it around her ears.

“Looks like you need the boost,” the girl emphasizes.

“Like you could get this far without your cheats.”

“I wouldn’t have to,” she says, “that’s the beauty of the codes.”

They’ve gone back and forth a few times, and Raven has failed to do any better than Wells without gaming the system. Her fingers fly over the little buttons on the controller, far too quickly for Clarke to register an order, but translucent pop-ups appear as various new capabilities are enabled, so the blonde imagines everything is working exactly as it’s supposed to.

Clarke and Raven have been back on speaking terms for a few days, and everyone is trying their best to get back to feeling normal, whatever that means.

After Raven turned up on the Blake-Griffin-Jaha doorstep, somewhere between making a quick, painless trip to the campus clinic and wolfing down the post-breakup pizza feast to end them all, Clarke and Octavia convinced Raven to stay with them, if only for however long it would take her cheating ex to find a new place and get all his crap out of the room they shared. Raven fought them at first, but, after finding out she’d spent a cold night sleeping in the truck, Octavia swore she’d sooner move the rest of Finn’s furniture to the curb herself than let her friend sleep outside again.

If Clarke could boil down the way these days have felt into a single moment, it’d be the one she shared with Raven, right after Octavia finally convinced her to stay, when Clarke insisted that Raven take her bed. Raven refused that, too, but her rejection isn’t the feeling that’s been haunting Clarke’s days. If anything, Clarke’s had plenty of time to familiarize herself with how it feels to be rejected by Raven Reyes.

What’s really sticking with Clarke is this need, this _compulsion_ to do the absolute most for Raven. It isn’t the same thing she feels for all her friends, though. It isn’t like watching Wells’ favorite new true crime series so he’ll have someone to gush about it with, or sweating through a TRX class at the rec with Octavia. This isn’t just Clarke trying to be a good friend, or even trying to mend a bridge that seems to have crumbled to a small fraction of its original size.

This is guilt. It’s guilt, and it’s fear. Guilt over being unlucky enough and incautious enough to have hurt Raven like she did, and fear that the worst of it isn’t over. Fear that, for all the crumbling this bridge between them has already done, they might not ever be able to repair it, not completely. Fear that what’s left, this last, raggedy path, is all that’ll ever be there, and that it won’t be enough.

Clarke’s well-aware of how stubborn and proud Raven can be. She knows her friend could be hopping on one leg because of pain in the other, and still might not accept help if she sees it as pity. She knows that Raven still feels as raw and hurt and ashamed as she did days ago, and she knows that fixing it will never be as simple as catering to the other girl, but Clarke can’t stop herself from trying.

And she hates it.

She loves Raven. Really, she does. It amazes her how much she loves Raven after just a few years, but Clarke hates feeling like she _has to_ prove it. She hates that, after they’d walked in the door with their pizza boxes and the too-sweet wine coolers that Bellamy had picked up for them, Clarke’s first instinct was for Raven to pick every movie, and for Raven have first pick of wine-cooler flavor, and for Raven to take her bed while Clarke settled on the couch or invaded Wells or Octavia’s space for the night.

She hates that, the morning after she bailed on study plans with Lexa to bond with Raven and Octavia over Raven’s favorite pizza, she’d rushed through a five minute shower, afraid Raven might’ve changed her mind about being fine with waiting until Clarke was finished; and that she’d offered up the last of the Honey Nut Cheerios, as though she was capable of making anything else in the kitchen into a quick breakfast; and that she’d pretty much vomited up her chemistry notes and her unsolicited jokes about whatever’s had Ontari in a less-than-malicious mood for the last week or so at Raven’s feet, even though she’s still annoyed that she’s been distracted enough for her lab grade to be just barely above a C.

Clarke wants to be a good person, and a good friend, but she wants it to feel like a choice, not a defense mechanism.

There are so many other things Clarke could be doing instead of this; things she _should_ be doing, even. She could be putting in a few productive hours at the library with Lexa before the evening shift she picked up at her restaurant, taking full advantage of the brunette’s willingness to look over her essay for English, or quizzing the other girl with the bottomless stack of bi-lingual flash cards she made for her French class. She could even be doodling or watching Netflix in her bedroom instead of sitting here, watching Raven and Wells play some game she doesn’t understand.

But she stays glued to her seat, not because she wants to, but because she’s worried.

Clarke doesn’t have a Raven-shaped void inside her anymore, and, in some ways, that fact alone does a lot of the fixing Clarke knows they still need. Octavia wasn’t wrong when she said they were all better together, but just being together hasn’t fixed everything. It’s harder now than ever before to be alone with Raven. Making lighthearted jokes and playing catch-up as though all the things they’ve missed in the last month of each other’s lives isn’t due to intentional avoidance is uncomfortable and stilted.

When Wells isn’t distracting them with his video games, and Bellamy isn’t overstaying his welcome on Raven’s temporary bed, and Octavia isn’t gossiping to them about whatever cute or thoughtful or swoon-worthy thing her _not_ boyfriend has done in the last thirty seconds, things are hard.

She’s grateful to have Raven back, to have her here, less than one-foot away on the couch between Clarke and Wells, trash-talking and smiling and existing in a way that she was afraid she’d never again be witness to, but she hates that she’s sitting here, bored and confused by this loud, bloody game they love, listening to them debate strategy and watching their character die over and over, just because she doesn’t want Raven to think she doesn’t want to be around her.

That isn’t the case, not by a long shot, but Clarke can’t stop herself from worrying that Raven might think so.

She wants desperately to be fine and she wants their friendship to be unquestionably good again and she wants to be sure of the forgiveness she and Raven have both professed, for each other, and for themselves.

She just isn’t there yet.

The worst part is that, if they weren’t all trying their hardest, and failing, to act normal, Clarke might not be afraid that talking about it with Raven or one of their mutual friends could send everything spiraling. But they are, and she is, and it could.

It’s kind of a big mess, but Clarke doesn’t have the tools to deal with it right now, so she sits with Wells and Raven, trying to ground herself in this moment instead of getting all tangled up in her own thoughts.

 

When Octavia strides into the living room from her bedroom in an oversized, faded orange hoodie that Clarke has never seen her in before with a huge smile on her face, the blonde finds herself smiling back, even if she doesn’t quite feel it. She knows how hard this has been on Octavia, trying to be there for two people who couldn’t be there for each other, juggling all the small grudges that come with being loyal to the friends who you know are being fucked over, and managing Clarke and Raven’s angst even while she has a few very good things going on in her own life.

The younger Blake grins as she crosses the living room, rolling her eyes when Wells and Raven make a fuss about her walking in front of the screen, and then wriggles her way onto the couch between Clarke and Raven, her bony butt forcing them further apart to accommodate her. She slings her arms across the back of the couch, then stares fondly between the two of them.

“Oh god,” Clarke asks, “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” Octavia sing-songs, but Clarke doesn’t believe her.

Raven doesn’t notice at first, the way Octavia looks between them, but, when her character dies and she passes the controller back over to Wells, she seems to be as suspicious as Clarke.

“What’s up, O,” she asks slowly.

“You know I love you, right, Clarkey,” Octavia asks, looking to the blonde.

“I know you want something,” Clarke says.

“And I love you, too, Rae,” Octavia adds, swiveling her head back toward the other brunette.

“Are you trying to butter us up,” Raven asks, leaning back enough to narrow her eyes at Octavia.

“What about me,” Wells interrupts before Octavia can deny it.

Octavia reaches over, pushes his headset slightly askew with her pointer finger, and says, “I love you, too, you narcissist.”

“Same, Baby Blake,” Wells smirks, then goes right back to the game, not missing a beat when Octavia scoffs and thumps the headset hard enough to knock it off.

“What are you up to,” Clarke tries again.

“Nothing bad,” Octavia promises, “I just have an idea that I want you both to agree to.”

“Well,” Clarke asks.

“Lay it on us, Blake,” Raven says.

“You two need to go on a cleanse,” Octavia tells them.

“O, I already did yoga with you,” Clarke whines, “Please don’t make me drink any of those gross shakes you like.”

“They’re unnatural,” Raven winces, “they look the way diarrhea feels.”

“I’m not making you do anything weird,” Octavia promises, jabbing her pointer finger into Raven’s ribs until she squirms halfway down her seat, “although it wouldn’t kill you to try something good and good for you. Plus, Lincoln _and_ Lexa like them, too, not just me.”

“Yeah, guys,” Wells says, eyes trained on the screen, “drink the smoothie. Be a yogi. Join the cult.”

Clarke rolls her eyes as Octavia turns to glare at the side of Wells’ face.

“Really, O,” Raven says, still low on the cushion between Wells and Octavia, “Is cyanide-tainted Kool-Aid part of your little cleanse, too? Because that’s a hard no for me. Well, soft no, if there are matching white robes involved.”

“Hard no for me if there are robes,” Wells chimes in, “but the cyanide would get me out of my accounting test, so I’m open.”

“What? You’re too good to match the rest of us,” Raven asks, finally straightening up in her seat.

“That’s not the worst suggestion I’ve heard for the roomie Christmas card,” Clarke says, shuddering at the thought of last year’s duct tape theme. The pictures were hilarious, but they cost almost an entire, non-refundable day of Clarke’s young life.

“There are no robes,” Octavia stresses, “and no cyanide, and no green smoothies, either. It isn’t that kind of cleanse.”

“I’m really not following,” Clarke admits.

“You two need to be cleansed of bad fuckboy juju,” Octavia says seriously, the corners of her mouth creeping downward so quickly that Clarke doesn’t register it until they’re edging up again, “and it just so happens there’s a Halloween party coming this weekend, thrown by our favorite frat boys.”

“Already told them,” Wells says, eyes still locked on the screen, “and they already shot me down.”

“Well, _I’m_ asking them now,” Octavia says, “and they won’t say no, because this is exactly what they need”

“I don’t know about this, O,” Clarke admits. She hasn’t been in much of a party mood for the last month or so, and she isn’t sure she’s feeling it now. Besides, Clarke’s had a whole month of wallowing and hasn’t totally rebounded. She doubts Raven’s gotten over it in the last few days.

“I’m pretty sure a rowdy frat party is the single worst way to get rid of bad fuckboy juju,” Raven says, adding on a last minute, “No offense, Wells,” that earns her an unbothered shrug.

“C’mon,” Octavia begs, “you two are still walking around like dark clouds—”

“We aren’t—” Clarke tries, but Octavia cuts her off, tilting her head to get a better look at the blonde.

“You are, too. I get it, okay? You guys have been through a lot, and it takes time and blah and effort and blah and healing and blah,” she says, bobbing her head to emphasize every other word, “but you also need to get out of your heads and away from all the bullshit for a while. And, loud music, crappy keg beer, and ridiculous costumes? That’s how you get out of your heads.”

“You really want us there, don’t you,” Raven asks.

“Duh. I already got Lincoln to agree, and Wells and the other fratties are decent company, but I want my girls there, too,” she says, squeezing the knees on either side of her own.

“And you really think a night of cheap beer is all we need to be cleansed?”

“Or your money back, guaranteed,” the brunette says, looking at Raven. The grip on Clarke’s knee is gentle, but tightens ever-so-slightly while Octavia looks quickly from Raven to Clarke, then back again. “All you have to do is say yes.”

Raven leans forward to make eye contact with Clarke, and all the blonde can do is shrug.

“I’ll invite Lexa and Anya,” Octavia emphasizes, “well, I was going to, either way, but I’ll make sure Lincoln gets them there.”

“Hear that, Clarke? You’ll get your Lexa time,” Wells teases.

“Lexa time,” Raven questions, “is that a thing, now?”

Her eyebrows inch up toward her hairline and her lips curl up, and Clarke thinks she might be trying to school a grin, but then she thinks of Raven’s face, hard and snarled, hurling out _Lexa deserves better than your bullshit_ , hurt and angry and probably right.

“We’re friends, okay,” Clarke blurts, a little too defensively, “don’t make it weird.”

Wells’ eyes leave the screen for the first time in a long while, wide and bewildered over Raven’s shoulder, and Clarke doesn’t miss the flash of hurt that the genius tries to hide from over Octavia’s. Octavia retracts her hands and folds them into her lap.

It’s almost funny, Clarke thinks, that Raven was the mastermind behind Operation Clexa, but now, after it’s served its purpose and Clarke can consider Lexa a friend, Raven is firmly outside of it, whether or not Clarke wants her to be.

Clarke doesn’t apologize, and each of her friends seems to want to smooth right over the tension as much as she does.

“Yeah, uh, exactly,” Octavia says, as Wells looks back to the game, “all your friends will be there. You might as well go.”

She smiles at Clarke, but it reads like a wince.

Clarke bites her lip and tries to push down another wave of the same old guilt before seeking out Raven’s eyes. Gone is the flash of hurt, replaced by something resembling, but distinctly weaker than a smile. Her mouth is curved upwards, but her big, brown eyes aren’t on the same page.

“There are worse ways to spend a Saturday night,” Raven shrugs.

“What have we got to lose,” Clarke asks, offering her own take on that half-hearted smile.

 

 

   
There’s a one hundred and seventy-pound bar clenched in Lexa’s hands when Lincoln brings up the Halloween party. The grit of the metal chafes her palms, and it fits unevenly into the callouses she’s earned after years of doing exactly this. The small cracks in the surface of the bench irritate her through her cutoff. It’s her last set, and sweat seeps from her skin into her shirt and heat pools under her head, her shoulders, her ass.

With each slow inhale, she lowers the bar.

She pauses, the smell of rust close to her nose and the sound her hands adjusting not far from her ears.

A lengthy exhale. She extends her arms through the burn.

Around her, music is blaring, people are grunting, weights are dropping with thuds and clangs and the occasional crash, but Lexa’s focus is on the bar in her hands.

Lincoln stands at the head of the bench, just inches away, his eyes scanning the bar to be sure it stays level, one hand hovering above it, one ghosting up and down below it, ready to intervene in the off-chance Lexa needs him.

This isn’t usually a talking time. They talk on Lexa and Anya’s couch, or at Lincoln and Nyko’s breakfast bar, or in coffeeshops, or on the morning runs that Lincoln’s been crashing more often since he knows Octavia will be there. They can even talk in the gym, when they’re secretly competing to be the least obviously affected by their speed on the elliptical. But, here, in the weight room, Lexa doesn’t expect to have anything to think about outside of what she’s lifting.

“There’s a Halloween party this weekend,” Lincoln tells her, his hand following the motion of the bar.

It’s almost suspicious that he waited until now, bar heavy in Lexa’s hands, Anya off doing god-knows-what with the cute yoga instructor they saw in the lobby.

“Bellamy and his frat brothers are throwing it,” he adds.

She breathes in.

If this were Anya, if Lexa’s roommate had waited until Lexa was straining and struggling to keep from crushing herself—or, at least, from having to ask for help to keep from crushing herself—it would be suspicious.

“It’s a costume thing,” he says as she slowly brings the bar down.

Lexa’s only halfway through her set, and her brain is too bogged down to properly split focus between Lincoln and the solid weight in her hands.

If Anya waited until Lexa was, essentially, trapped in place, she’d be bristling already, expecting that the other girl was about to dangle the idea of something she wouldn’t particularly like to do, or needle her about something she didn’t want to talk about.

“You going,” she breathes out, counting herself up to her next rep.

But, this is Lincoln, not Anya.

“That’s the plan,” Lincoln says, his hand still tracking the bar, “Clarke’s going to be there.”

Drawn out exhale. She raises the bar and fights the urge to roll her eyes, fully aware that he’d see it.

Holds her response until she’s sure she’s still in control of the bar.

Slow inhale until her hands are almost down to her chest.

“Makes sense,” she puffs out, “her friends are throwing it.”

Exhale. She pushes the bar toward the ceiling.

There’s nothing surprising, or even special, about Clarke going to her friends’ party, and Lexa’s brain is working too hard to notice any question in Lincoln’s words before he makes it plain.

“We should work on our costumes together,” he tells her.

Lexa tries for a laugh, but remembers how silly that plan is when just holding the bar up becomes ten times more taxing the more she exerts herself.

Anya’s methods must be contagious, if Lincoln is using this time to try to talk her into going to what she already knows is going to be a rager.

She waits until she has the bar up high to say, “Count me out, Linc. You know I hate frat parties.”

“Clarke will just convince you if I can’t,” he says airily.

Lexa’s eyebrows knit together, and sweat trickles dangerously close to her eye.

“She can try,” Lexa says, when she gets the bar down.

“You and Clarke have been spending a lot of time together,” he says, narrowly avoiding the teasing tone that Anya always slips into.

Needling her about something she doesn’t particularly want to talk about, indeed.

“We study well together,” she says.

Home stretch. One last push for full extension of her arms.

“You seem to do a lot of things well together,” Lincoln says, finally mobilizing both hands to help Lexa put the bar back where it belongs. When Lexa’s hands are free, and she doesn’t make a move to get up, he leans over the bar to smirk at her.

Her arms feel limp like spaghetti noodles, and she lets them flop down on either side of the bench until just her fingertips brush the wood of the gym floor.

“We _are_ friends,” Lexa stresses, after a few deep breaths, “how come, when I study with you or An, we don’t have to have these conversations?”

“You don’t think Anya and I are nice,” he says, sticking out a thumb, “and smart,” he adds a finger, “and cute.”

“You’re both all of those things,” Lexa argues, slipping down the bench, ignoring the way the scratchy material makes her sweaty shirt bunch up high on her back and dragging roughly against her skin, until she can stand up and add, “well, most of those things, at least.”

“It’s different, though,” Lincoln presses, reaching a long arm to the next bench to grab Lexa a cleaning towel and a bottle of semi-noxious cleaning spray, “you’re not into me or Anya.”

“Who says I’m into Clarke,” Lexa asks, wiping down the bench.

“We’ve had this conversation before,” Lincoln reminds her, “you’d totally be into Clarke, if you didn’t want to not be.”

“Still non-sensical,” Lexa says, thinking back to the Dropship, to the first time she and Lincoln had danced around this conversation, when he word-twisted his way into accusing her of liking Clarke, and the couple of times since then, when he’d hinted at it with clearer language, and with Anya somewhere close, rewording everything in cruder terms.

He’s not wrong, exactly.

Lexa isn’t naïve enough to write off the fluttering in her belly when she sees her friend, and she isn’t dense enough to believe that the way she feels about Clarke’s many different smiles or her listening face or her doodling is benign or unsentimental.

She knows she could like Clarke, and she knows that, in Lincoln words, if she didn’t want to not be, she’d probably be _really_ into Clarke.

But knowing and admitting are two very distant points on a boundless grid.

“C’mon, Lexa,” he says, leaning against the suspended bar again, “I’m not trying to be pushy, but, just for a second, think about how good you two could be.”

“Again,” Lexa starts, almost pouting at Lincoln, “I don’t want anything serious. I’m keeping things casual, okay? Light.”

She tries to lean an easy elbow against another unused bar, but it almost gives when she leans in too far, and Lincoln smirks at her, yet again, before saying, “Light. Okay. Just thought I’d give you a push, before Anya does.”

“What does that mean,” Lexa asks, eyes wide.

Lincoln shrugs and says, “Nothing,” but it’s too sugary-sweet for Lexa’s liking, “We already decided we’re all going to the party, though. Might as well stop fighting it and help me figure out what we’re going to be before Anya makes us wear a group costume.”

“What, you and Octavia aren’t coordinating your costumes,” Lexa asks him, finally getting in a smirk of her own when he practically stumbles over himself to say that he and Octavia are casual, too.

“She’s cool,” he says, “we’re cool.”

Lexa raises an eyebrow, then offers a truce.

“I won’t give you any crap about Octavia if you’ll leave me alone about Clarke.”

She extends her right hand.

Lincoln looks somewhere over her shoulder for a second before slapping his hand to hers and saying, “Deal. No promises on Anya, though.”

“C’mon,” Lexa starts, but, before she can get any further in that line of thought, a quick palm smacks her ass so hard that she yelps louder than the clanging and thudding and crashing of heavy weights.

“It’s okay,” Anya announces, to more than twenty curious strangers, “she’s into it.”

“I hate you,” Lexa mutters, resisting the reflexive urge to rub her now-sore butt, “both of you.”

“Hate us later, Lex,” Anya teases, “We’ve got a party to get ready for, and I’ve got ideas.”

 

 

“No.”

Lexa says it without thought, sighing, not for the first time, as she leans more heavily on her palms and stretches her legs out in front of her.

“You can’t say ‘no’ yet,” Anya scoffs, “you didn’t even look.”

“I’m saying it, though,” Lexa tells her, not bothering to stretch up from her spot on the floor to look at the _costume_ Anya’s trying to convince her to wear. This battle has already been raging for what feels like years.

There’s a mountain of fabric weighing down Anya’s bed, one that her friend arranges and rearranges into increasingly risqué costumes. The only way it shrinks is by Lexa vetoing things, piece by piece, and she’s been trying to make a dent in it for so long that her ass and her knees have both gone from tingly to numb and back again.

“You’re making this harder than it needs to be,” Anya huffs, digging something gaudy out of her dresser drawer and pairing it with a few other options.

“We both know I don’t wear fishnets.”

“Fine,” Anya says, rolling her eyes and moving the pair of distressed stockings to the small pile on the floor. “Even Lincoln agreed to tights, though.”

“And I want a whole shirt, An,” Lexa says, refusing to remind Anya that Lincoln agreed to too-tight khakis, and his massive legs just make them seem like tights, “Not one of those half-slashed things. And in an adult size.”

Anya pulls a face and sweeps a couple more pieces of clothing to the floor.

“No wings, either.”

“You’re really limiting yourself, Lex.”

“Sorry for trying to keep the last shreds of my dignity,” she frowns.

“Nobody keeps their dignity on Halloween.”

“Nothing completely sheer.”

“How are people going to drool over your abs if you hide them away all night?”

“It’s October,” Lexa says.

“And you’re hot-blooded for a reason.”

“No fur.”

“I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and hope you didn’t just call me a furry.”

“I have to cover all my bases,” she shrugs, leaning forward enough to see the base of the pile, “and no animal patterns.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have let Lincoln leave. You’re more difficult when there aren’t enough of us to out-vote you.”

“You didn’t try to put him in skin-tight booty shorts,” Lexa counters, letting her hands slip slowly away from her until she can lie back on the floor. She stretches her back, then her arms, and groans a little. 

“Nyko tried,” Anya laughs and then flops, flat on her back, onto the pile on the bed, “but he also busted a seam before they got halfway up his legs, so it didn’t really work out. Lincoln is wearing my tunic, though, that one my mother sent me. Fits like a glove, but, like, a _really_ tight glove.”

“I don’t want to wear anything see-through, and I don’t want to be cold.”

“Where’s your Halloween spirit,” Anya pouts, rolling onto her side to yank some of the clothes out from underneath her and then falling back into the same spot, inches lower.

“You have all the spirit for the both of us.”

“C’mon, how are you going to properly seduce Blondie if you don’t go all out.”

“I’m not trying to—” Lexa starts.

“I know, I know. Lincoln told me. But, for the record, you don’t seem convinced.”

“I’m literally—”

“Spending all your time with the hot blonde you don’t want to wife up,” Anya asks, balling up something Lexa’s sure she’s already vetoed to use as a pillow.

“Anya.”

“Okay. Fine, it doesn’t have to be Blondie, then. Live in denial, but at least have fun while you’re there.”

“I’ve _had_ fun,” Lexa says, folding her arms underneath her head.

“With two whole girls,” Anya mocks, holding up two fingers for emphasis, “I thought this was supposed to be your wild child phase. You haven’t reached your full potential, yet, and I have high hopes, starting with this costume.”

“I can just be a rugby player,” Lexa rolls her eyes, “I’ve got a jersey and everything.”

“Well, you’re not going to catch any hot vampire babes if you go as yourself to a costume party, either.”

“The rugby uniform doesn’t exactly scare girls off, you know,” Lexa says, arching her eyebrow and thinking of the handful of times she’s been blatantly hit on by girls who’d stared her down on the field.

Anya smirks from her makeshift pillow and says, “that’s an attitude that might just help you defy the odds.”

“I’m not defying any odds, Anya,” Lexa stresses, “and I’m not looking to match the wildness of _your_ wild child phase. Also, feel free to stop teasing me about Clarke, anytime.”

“Stop being such an easy target, and I might.”

“You know,” Lexa starts, leaning up on her elbows, “from all the time you spend talking about me and Clarke, or Lincoln and Octavia, it’s almost like you’re trying distract us from something. Maybe even your budding friendship with a certain girl who recently lost about a hundred and fifty pounds of dead weight?”

Lexa points and flexes her bare feet on the cheap carpet, pretends not to be bothered by the way it seems to dig right into her elbows, leaving tender patterns in her skin.  
Anya swivels her head a few degrees away, side-eyes her, but, somehow, doesn’t give anything away. All these years of friendship, and the girl is still a mystery when she wants to be.

“Nothing to tell, there,” she shrugs, “the Genius caught a bad break in the dating world, and, sometimes, she needs a couple hours away from Lincoln and Octavia’s _whatevering_ , and away from Blondie and all that awkwardness.”

“Weird, how you’re her first choice,” Lexa smirks, seeing the slightest glimmer of the upper-hand in the conversation and going after it with all she has.

“I’m everyone’s first choice, Lex,” Anya scoffs, “And you know I’m not into that gross shit you and Linc like.”

“But, if the right person came along,” Lexa says, “someone smart and, like, kind of raunchy, or cute and good with her hands, or someone who’s all that stuff…”

“Still sounds like a you thing,” Anya tells her, voice even. She sits up in her spot, leaning over the mountain of costume pieces, to the side Lexa can’t see, and starts digging.

“What was that thing you were saying earlier? That thing about living in denial,” Lexa presses.

The first response she gets is some surprising weighty clothing getting tossed over Anya’s shoulder and landing squarely in Lexa’s face.

The second, after she’s uncovered her face, is Anya, grinning like a mad woman, and saying, “Might as well have fun,” before tossing a few more items in Lexa’s direction. “I can’t believe I didn’t lead with this.”

“No half-shirts,” Lexa reminds her.

“It’s that or the body suit,” Anya smiles, “I look pretty damn good in both, and at this rate, we’re going to miss the whole thing, rotting in this room while you scrunch up your nose and try to pretend like I won’t dress you myself and drag you to this party.”

Against her better judgement, and because she knows this is a lesser evil, Lexa holds up the pieces of the outfit in her lap, and says, “Fine, I’ll wear it. No wig, though. That’s final.”

The grin on Anya’s face spreads even further, and, mysterious or not, it’s a little terrifying. 

 

 

It isn’t as cold out as she’d been expecting, and her turtleneck _would_ be warming her up even if it were, but Lexa still pointedly crosses her arms over her exposed abs when, on their short walk to the party, Lincoln laughs and says, “I still can’t believe Anya got you into a wig.”

Next to her, Nyko smirks, raises a hand to touch it, and Lexa glares him into retracting it, synthetic hairs tickling her forehead as she moves.

“Where’d you even get these things,” Nyko asks, using the hand that almost touched Lexa’s wig to knit into the suspenders on his lumberjack costume instead.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to,” Anya says cryptically, pinned into a wig of her own, and she’s right, Lexa really doesn’t need to know which of the things she’s wearing are remnants of Anya’s conquests of Halloweens past. “It’s her best look though, right?”

“It’s definitely something,” Lincoln sniggers.

“Still can’t believe _you’re_ wearing her tunic,” Lexa bites, rolling her eyes at the pointed green hat barely balanced on the back of his head.

“It’s because I’m so charming,” Anya shrugs from her spot beside Lincoln, she looks over her shoulder to remind Lexa that, “It’s one of my best qualities.”

“Wedged under that massive ego,” Lexa huffs.

“Right where I like it,” Anya says, and Lexa can hear the grin in her voice.

If she thought she could get away with it, Lexa might tear off the wig, bobby pins and all, make a last ditch run for it, and spend her Saturday night watching creepy Hitchcock movies with her parents or reading ahead for class, her midriff covered and her patience safe from the test of drunk college boys. She’d never make it, though. Even if Anya couldn’t catch her, she knows all the places Lexa might think to hide, and she’d show up, frothing at the mouth and begging Lexa to at least pretend to be capable of unwinding more than a few times a year.

In any case, resistance seems futile.

Besides, Lexa doesn’t _actually_ hate her costume. Although the wig is awful and stringy, it isn’t any worse than the inky mop on Anya’s head. And, while plenty of her torso is on display, it isn’t like she’s the most exposed of the group; Anya’s body suit clings to every line and curve, and Lincoln’s skin tight khaki pants aren’t leaving much to the imagination, either. If she’s honest, Lexa _could_ probably use a night that doesn’t involve studying or working or strategizing for the last few rugby games of the season.

She and her friends take turns teasing each other over their costumes, over Nyko’s lack of creativity and Lincoln’s geekiness, over the frown Lexa tries and fails to keep in place and Anya’s shamelessness, and, before long, they’re walking up to the house Bellamy and the other guys have offered up as tribute for the inevitable carnage of a Halloween kegger.

Fake spider webs are littered all over the outside of the house, wrapping around bushes and low hanging trees, covering squares of yellowing grass. Styrofoam gravestones are scattered all over, with names taken directly from prank calls: Hugh G. Rection, Oliver Closeof, Al Coholic, Dick Hertz. Life-size neon yellow plastic skeletons are zip tied into the spaces between the Greek letters on their lawn: Phi-Skeleton-Delta-Skeleton-Epsilon. There are pumpkins lining the cement walk up to the front door; sinking, molding faces decorate some, shrinking bottles of booze and condoms carved into others.

The night is young, but Lexa can already picture the plastic cups and cigarette butts and puddles of vomit that’ll cover the rest of the ground in a few short hours.

Lexa has never been a fan of frat parties. Watching rowdy, straight boys guzzle alcohol through funnels and grope girls at random is, arguably, her least favorite thing in the world, but her friends are here, and, as easy as it is to doubt sometimes, this is what people her age do for fun. And, if there’s anything Lexa can appreciate, it’s putting all those rowdy boys to shame in beer pong.

A gangly cowboy at the door hands out plastic green cups to the four of them, his braces gleaming in the dark they pass him to enter the house. They move through a dimly lit room, jam-packed with costumed bodies, and illuminated temporarily, but never completely, by a few roving strobe lights. It’s exactly what Lexa expects of a proper frat party, already in full swing, and she’s a little impressed by how calm the house seems from outside.

Nyko leads the way in, all height and width and uncompromising forward motion, undeterred by noise, by raucous voices, singing and shouting, by the steady beat of the live band in the open room to the right. The others fall in line, single file, snaking and curving when necessary, until they find a short row of kegs. There are three of them, each a few feet apart, against a wall, and each seems to have its own short line forming.

They’re about to join the one on the left when Bellamy intercepts them. He’s sporting the same boyish smile Lexa’s gotten used to seeing, along with an excessive amount of khaki-colored clothing, including an unbuttoned shirt with one sleeve completely missing to reveal a tan arm and chest, a fedora, a satchel, and a whip.

He’s clearly a little drunk, too, because he gives Lincoln a friendly pat on the shoulder, compliments his costume and the duct tape holsters he’s created for his sword and shield, and tells him where to find Octavia instead of just avoiding eye contact and artfully dodging the subject of his little sister and her _not boyfriend_. And, Bellamy trades the green cups in each of their hands for red ones, explaining, “Green cups are for freshmen and lightweights.”

That’s when Lexa notices that the kegs lined against the wall are color-coded. There’s a line of green duct tape around the one on the left, blue on an identical one beside it, and red on the tall, skinny keg on the right.

“Green cups get the cheap stuff,” Bellamy shouts into their little huddle, their green cups stacked in one hand, “like, Natty light or Keystone. Tastes like ass, and has less alcohol than my nana’s eggnog, but, it’s not like they need it, you know?”

“Bitch beer for the babies,” Anya smirks, “Good. What about the other colors?”

“Blue cups get decent stuff. Bud Light, nothing fancy. Red cups can have the good beer, like the craft brew from Murphy’s uncles bar a few towns over, or liquor of your choice in the kitchen.”

He points them off in the direction of the kitchen, and they all nod gratefully.

“Keep your cup on you,” he tells them, “and make sure you tell O and the others I gave you these for free. All the other red and blue cups paid for them, and I don’t need the girls hassling me.”

“Sure thing, Indy,” Anya winks, and Bellamy’s boyish smile morphs into awe as Anya walks off, not waiting to see if the others are following her to the kitchen.

“So,” the boy starts, leaning in even closer to the other three, absentmindedly fiddling with the green plastic in his hands, “What’s Anya’s deal?”

Lincoln and Nyko laugh while trading a look that seems to say _you couldn’t handle her if you tried, man_. Lexa shakes her head at Bellamy, trying her best not to laugh in his face, because Anya would chew him up and spit him out, and leaves him blushing in the crowded room as she follows Anya to the kitchen.

There are people doing body shots in the kitchen, and, unsurprisingly, Anya is one of them. One minute out of sight, and her black lipstick is inches from staining the torso of the belly dancer draped on half the kitchen island. Lexa spots Murphy lying on the other side of the island, his pale, hairy stomach freed from what can best be described as a sexy Batman costume—dark cape sprawled beneath him, gray long sleeve clinging to his arms, tight gray pants cut above the knee, heeled black boots, and a pointy-eared mask, askew, but held against his head with string—and an _enthusiastic_ girl with a Bane mask on her head sprinkling salt on him.

It’s probably best not to get involved, so the brunette busies herself with maneuvering around the people standing, including the secret agent posted beside the countertop with all the hard liquor who wards off anyone without a red cup, finding a bottle of whisky and splashing a little into her cup, and then drowning it in Coke. Before she’s finished pouring, Lincoln is at her side, fixing his own rum and Coke, telling her that Nyko heard something about a pool table in the basement and headed that way.

“Looks like Anya’s already found somebody to keep her busy,” he laughs, “poor Bellamy is going to be heartbroken.”

“For the two seconds it takes him to find a damsel in distress, maybe,” Lexa laughs. “Are you going on a great quest to save Octavia from missing you?”

“Maybe,” he smirks, sipping his drink, “You going to find Clarke?”

Lexa laughs and rolls her eyes.

“Last time, I promise,” Lincoln tells her, “but you might as well come with, since there’s a ninety percent chance they’re together.”

“Seriously, Lex,” Anya cuts in, helping the belly dancer off the counter, “hide it from Blondie all you want, but we all know who you’re here to hang out with, and it isn’t us. That said, I’ll totally help you find a one-nighter later, if you need me to.”

“I hate you.”

“Wild child phase,” her best friend winks, and then hops up into the cleared space on the counter.

Lexa gets in one more eye roll as Anya lets the girl with the salt and tequila lick a sure path across the skin of her neck not shielded by the bodysuit, then follows Lincoln through the crowd, nodding to the people she recognizes from class, until they’re making their way back out to the room with the band and scanning the crowd for Clarke and Octavia.

They almost miss them, in the sea of ghouls and goblins and Playboy bunnies, but, sure enough, there they are, dancing in a tight circle with Raven, Wells, and Monty. The three girls are in similar outfits: monochromatic dresses broken up by thick, black belts around their waists, white tights, black flats. The biggest difference are the colors. While Clarke is in baby blue, Octavia wears a springy green, and Raven is in pink. Octavia’s long, dark hair is down, Raven’s in a high ponytail and topped with an obscenely large, red bow, and Clarke’s is split into two curly pigtails. Wells is in on the group theme, too, with a long, buttoned lab coat, black trousers, and a hopefully fake pipe in the hand that isn’t holding his drink. Monty is the oddball, in a trench coat and a hat not unlike Bellamy’s, but with the top cut away to reveal what looks two inflated rubber gloves sprouting straight out of it.

Lexa and Lincoln practically fight their way through the crowd, until Lincoln can lean over Octavia’s shoulder, somehow shocking her enough to make her jump, but not enough to keep her from using the momentum of that jump to essentially leap onto him, wrap her arms around his neck, and then fall seamlessly into a world only they share.

Raven pulls Lexa into the group and urges her to dance before even saying ‘hello’, and, mercifully, is the only one to comment on the wig, asking, “How the hell did you find a halfway decent wig on such short notice?”

“Anya,” is all Lexa has to say, and then Raven is laughing and dancing, and so are the others.

Lexa finds herself sort of wedged between Raven and Clarke, because space all around them is limited, and this is the spot Raven carved out for her, and, when she’s face-to-face with her blonde friend, Clarke just smiles and says, “You made it. We didn’t even have to call or beep you.”

She’s the only one without a drink in hand, the only one whose clumsiness isn’t obviously amplified by alcohol, and, silly as it may be, Lexa feels sort of embarrassed by how close they are. Embarrassed enough that the first thing she can think to say is, “I made it,” and then she’s sipping her whiskey and Coke and moving her hips in time with the beat, if only for an excuse to break eye contact with the blonde.

 

 

Later, when Lexa and Raven have finished their drinks, and Lincoln and Octavia have gravitated away from the rest of the group, and the band has been replaced by some remixed pop hits, Lexa finds herself being led away from the dance floor by Clarke and Raven. The boys are happy to let them go—especially when Wells makes a connection with a ballerina and Jasper shows up in his Tony Perkis costume to keep Monty entertained—so the three of them weave back out through the crowd.

Clarke leads, reaching back blindly to grab a hold of Raven so they can’t be separated. The genius links them all, a warm hand gripping Lexa’s glove lightly, her bow bumping shoulders and faces. There isn’t any communication, none that Lexa can sense anyway, but Clarke leads them with purpose.

First, they head to a bathroom upstairs, slipping past the skinny frat boy in a knight’s costume, tasked with keeping horny partiers from sneaking away to the bedrooms upstairs. It’s Bellamy’s, Clarke explains, so there’s no line, no pee sprinkled on the toilet seat, no puddles of alcohol sloshed on the floor or discarded drinks.

They do that thing that girls do in movies, where they take turns using the bathroom while the others crowd the mirror, but, weirdly, Lexa realizes that she speaks more to each girl than they do to each other. She laughs at Raven’s jokes about the Dread Pirate Roberts downstairs spilling a full cup of beer on his blouse and straightens her huge bow. She accepts Clarke’s compliment on her dancing and only shakes a little when she’s leaning in to touch up the blonde’s eyeliner. But, when Lexa’s the one handling her business, the other two are quiet, barely even looking at each other.

The three of them head back downstairs, to the kitchen, this time, where Lexa’s half expecting Anya to still be. In the few words they share, Raven somehow talks Clarke into having a drink. The brunette is more than a little impressed when the blonde reaches into the cabinet right next to them and produces a red cup for Raven to fill with tequila and lukewarm orange juice.

Lexa’s slowly sipped whiskey and coke barely affected her, so, against her better judgment she lets Raven mix her next one, too. It barely touches her tongue, and she’s pulling a face, sure she’s going to regret it. She watches Raven mix one even stronger for herself, and then they’re off again, this time downstairs to a huge game room that isn’t as uncomfortably packed as the rooms on the main level, where the music doesn’t carry quite as far. Some couples are already pressing each other into dark corners, and Nyko and Anya have teamed up against a banana and Peter Pan in beer pong.

Raven’s quick to sidle up beside the table, trash talking as though she hasn’t missed half the game, but Clarke tugs at Lexa’s long sleeve before they get too close, something Lexa can’t quite place lighting up her face.

“Don’t tell Anya I said this,” Clarke starts, looking to the table and back, “but I always kind of shipped Kim and Shego.”

Lexa looks at Anya in her green and black bodysuit and dark make-up and groans.

“Too much info,” the blonde asks, positively giggling at Lexa’s reaction.

“A modern-day horror story,” Lexa tells her, “all the costumes in the world, and I somehow ended up in a couple’s costume with Anya, of all people.”

“You guys look great, though,” Clarke promises, “Very authentic. And what are couple’s costumes, if not two-person group costumes?”

“Does that mean group costumes are just really big couple’s costumes,” Lexa wonders aloud, cheeks warming as Clarke laughs.

“You might just be on to something,” the blonde smirks.

 

 

After the first drink hits her, Lexa doesn’t have as many reservations about Raven mixing them up for her. She even almost gets used to the taste. She doesn’t lose herself, doesn’t let herself get anywhere near out of control, but she relaxes into the giggling, talkative, beer pong prodigy that’s usually locked away in a vault of seriousness. She wins a couple rounds with Raven. She loses to Clarke and Bellamy. She heckles the bespectacled boys who dare to take them on next.

Lexa gets comfortable enough not to mind when Anya winks and darts her eyes between Lexa and Clarke whenever they manage to make each other laugh. She gets loose enough to tell the jokes she knows are probably stupid. She holds her cool, sweaty glass up to her cheeks when she makes Clarke laugh especially hard, and doesn’t overthink it when their other friends don’t get the punchlines.

She enjoys herself. She spends time with her friends, with Clarke and everyone else, drifting between rooms, between sounds, drinking and tossing pong balls and dancing and getting, literally, hot under the collar.

When she goes to take a break, to cool herself down, Clarke follows her upstairs to a spot against the wall, under a dull sconce. The blonde snags Lexa’s empty cup, disappears for a minute, and, instead of bringing her more whiskey, she brings her a full cup of water, which the brunette drinks gratefully. They’re quiet for a while, catching their breath and rehydrating, Lexa well beyond her usual threshold for tipsiness, while most of their friends get sweaty on the dance floor.

“God, they’re predictable,” Clarke laughs, breaking a comfortable silence, looking through the mess of costumed bodies on the makeshift dance floor. When Lexa follows the direction of her eyes, she sees Lincoln and Octavia dancing, their faces inches apart and bodies even closer, realizes she’s barely seen them all night.

“So predictable,” Lexa agrees. Lincoln’s pointed, green hat is on Octavia’s head, her fingers are tangled in his tunic, and, as far as Lexa can tell, the two of them are still in their own little world.

“Hopeless romantics,” Clarke says, as Lexa watches the blonde smile at their friends, “No matter what they say.”

“They’re not fooling anyone,” Lexa laughs, thinking of all the times they’ve claimed they’re being casual, or going with the flow, or not _really_ dating.

Those two are crazy about each other.

Lincoln doesn’t say as much, at least not directly, because none of them have ever been big on the whole externalizing their feelings thing, no matter how they try to taunt and strong-arm each other into divulging, but Lexa can tell, even in the haze of alcohol and strobe lights. She can see it in the way he talks about Octavia, in the way he grins when she beats him in a foot race, in the way he tucks her sweaty hair behind her ear and brings her a half-frozen water bottle after a rugby game. Lexa thinks Octavia’s the same way about Lincoln.

Casual doesn’t exist, not when it comes to those two.

It isn’t her choice, not by a long shot, but if Lexa was responsible for choosing a person to trust with what might be the biggest, kindest heart she’s ever known, well, she’d pick Clarke’s best friend in a heartbeat.

Clarke looks at the two of them for a long moment, and Lexa spends all that time looking at Clarke. She shouldn’t, because they’re just friends, because she isn’t looking for anything more than friendship, and because she knows Clarke isn’t either, but she does.

Clarke is a lot of things. She’s funny and observant and creative and a million other, sometimes contradictory things, but she’s always at her softest when she’s looking at, or talking about, the people she loves. Even when they’re mad at her, or when they’re annoying her, or when she’s pretending to be disgusted by their happy couple-dom, her eyes go all soft and so does her smile.

It’s nothing like what happens when the blonde laughs at her own jokes. It isn’t blue eyes glancing toward the ceiling, trying to catch a train of thought that’s long gone off the rails. It isn’t an eyebrow creeping toward her hairline. It isn’t a smirk that borders on flirtation. It isn’t a witty comeback.

It’s wistful Clarke. It’s the dreamy tilt of her head. It’s the twitching of the corners of her mouth that seems almost involuntary. It’s eyes the color of a cloudless day seeing someone in a way Lexa doesn’t even know if she’s capable of. She isn’t sure if it’s because Clarke is an artist, or if it’s because she’s more expressive than Lexa could ever hope to be, but, when Clarke gets that look, Lexa just _knows_ that the blonde is seeing things in a way that only she can.

Lexa doesn’t want love or romance or complicated feelings these days, but she’d just about melt if Clarke looked like that when looking at her.

The moment disappears as quickly as it set in, and the softness is hidden away, replaced by the beginning of a frown, as Clarke looks to the other side of the dance floor.

“And, on the opposite end of the spectrum,” the blonde trails off.

Lexa follows the path of her eyes to see Raven, twirling from the hand of tall, mustachioed guy into the arms of skinny boy in a star-spangled morph suit. When the boy in the morph suit spins her around, her oversized bow smacks him in the face, and, before he even has time tilt his head away, she’s two-stepping away from him, too, this time to sway alongside Ginger Jesus in his long robe, sandals, and sash.

Morph suit seems to want to pull Raven back to him, but, out of nowhere, Lexa sees Anya all but dragging the girl she’s been grinding on, not the belly dancer anymore, between him and the mechanic, dancing just erratically enough to make it easier for him to give up than to try to get around them.

“I don’t blame her for wanting to party all the drama out of her system, I guess,” Clarke says, wincing when Ginger Jesus gets ditched for the green Power Ranger.

“I’m a little surprised you aren’t doing the exact same thing,” Lexa says.

“I’m trying to stay out of trouble, these days,” the blonde admits, slouching against the wall and looking at Lexa, “One scandal, and people look at you funny. Two, and they probably avoid you for life.”

The blonde smirks, and, even though it doesn’t reach her eyes, Lexa doesn’t push. She’ll tell Clarke again, at some point when they’re both thinking clearly and the blonde isn’t steeping herself in tequila and the self-imposed torture of forcing herself not to participate in the life she should be sharing with her friends, that this wasn’t her fault, and she doesn’t deserve to suffer for it.

For now, Lexa just says, “I wouldn’t avoid you,” and, when Clarke smiles, not that soft smile from earlier, but one that’s appreciative and shy and sort of confusing, Lexa adds, “I don’t have anyone else to review flashcards with me without also moping about it for hours.”

“You really know how to make a girl feel appreciated,” Clarke says. Even though she rolls her eyes, Lexa gets a flash of a genuine smile.

“I appreciate you, Clarke,” Lexa says, perhaps a little too sincerely, and she hopes the room is loud enough to drown out the sound of her swallowing around a lump in her throat.

There’s a moment, heavy and thick, when Clarke is looking at Lexa and Lexa is looking back, and trying her damnedest to remember why sober-Lexa is so sure that liking Clarke is such a terrible idea.

She knows she has a reason, but, right now, it seems too far away to matter.

Like too many good things, though, the moment ends. It’s interrupted by something, or someone, catching Clarke’s eye on the dance floor. Lexa watches the other girl look out, she sees her purse her lips for just a second and then look back.

“Don’t look now,” Clarke says under her breath, her lips barely moving, “but I’m pretty sure that girl’s been staring at you.”

Of course, Lexa looks, and there’s an angel, halo and all, swaying around on the dance floor, her eyes locked on Lexa. And maybe the brunette is a little drunker than she’s expecting, because she honestly doesn’t know why Clarke thinks that’s relevant information until the blonde is nudging her head in the strange girl’s direction, painting a smile onto her face, and saying, “You should go dance with her.”

Lexa wants to laugh. She wants to tell the blonde she’d rather be right here, trying to remember why she shouldn’t want to dance with Clarke instead of meeting someone new. She wants to ask her friend, the friend she keeps having all these _moments_ with, why they never amount to anything, and whether they ever will.

But Clarke is smiling, broad and encouraging, and she’s tugging the empty cup out of Lexa’s hand, and she’s murmuring, “C’mon, aren’t you doing that wild child thing, or whatever? Go get the girl, Kim Possible.”

And then, with her hands free and her brain working overtime just to function at normal capacity, Lexa thinks she figures something out.

Maybe, all those moments that Lexa’s been feeling, all those stretches of time where Lexa feels like something special could be happening between her and Clarke, all those little things that Lexa’s come to dread and relish in equal measure, maybe they’re all in her head. Maybe, Clarke hasn’t felt a single one. Maybe, Lexa’s misread this whole situation.

Embarrassment doesn’t do this feeling justice.

Lexa’s mortified.

She’s always been good at tucking away her feelings, at schooling her face before it can sell her secrets, but she doesn’t think she’s talented enough to spend more than a few seconds in Clarke’s presence without weirding the blonde out.

So, Lexa goes.

She offers Clarke a smile, something small, but hopefully not wavering as badly as she thinks, and she makes her way to the angel on the dancefloor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're curious about the costumes:  
> Lexa and Anya are Kim and Shego  
> Clarke, Raven, Octavia and Wells are the Powerpuff Girls and Professor X  
> Bellamy is Indiana Jones  
> Lincoln is Link  
> Monty is Inspector Gadget  
> Jasper is Tony Perkis  
> Murphy is the Sexy Batman to Emori's Bane  
> Nyko is a lumberjack  
> and it's three am and I forgot to write Miller in, but in my head he'd totally be Prince


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa comes to an important realization.

Lexa wants to appreciate this distraction, this undeserved reprieve from her own humiliation. She should be thankful for it, for anything that stops her from making a fool of herself, and keeps her from having to lie to Clarke’s face. More than anything, she should be relieved by how much easier this should make things.

She didn’t want to feel anything. Lexa didn’t want to get sucked into the kind of feelings that make her heart and her head too soft to protect her. She didn’t want any of it, and, now, she has the benefit of knowing that her feelings wouldn’t matter either way. Curiosity or attraction or infatuation, whichever of those undesirable little things were sparking in her at any given moment in the presence of her blonde friend, none of them would matter. Not if Clarke doesn’t want them to. Whatever she’s been sensing, it doesn’t matter if Clarke hasn’t sensed it, too.

This is the universe intervening, offering a free pass from being a slave to things she’s been actively avoiding, if only Lexa’s smart enough to cash it in.

She has a pretty girl in her arms, one who’s warm and lithe and doesn’t tangle her thoughts, and this is where she thinks she should be. She just needs to force herself into this moment, needs her mind to catch up with her body, instead of lingering on a blonde who, _maybe_ she’d be into if she didn’t want to not be, and _thankfully_ doesn’t seem to want her.

There’s an angel in Lexa’s arms, one who clearly _does_ want her, and Lexa’s been a lot of things over the course of her life—stubborn and neurotic and single-minded—but, above all, she’s always been smart.

 

 

They dance for a while, long enough for Lexa to feel the whiskey warm her veins, and long enough for Lexa’s mind to complete its slow trek away from the blonde across the room, back to where she is now, where it belongs.

The angel is a pretty girl. Beautiful, even, and Lexa knows she’s enormously lucky to be here, being touched by an angel, wings and all. A gorgeous stranger wants her, and, even if she couldn’t completely side-step embarrassment, she’s narrowly dodged having to share it with the friend who doesn’t. This should feel like a win. One more for her wild child phase and an easy way out of the teasing she’s been getting from Anya and Lincoln and something like clarity in her friendship with Clarke. It doesn’t, though.

It can’t feel like a win, when, outside of the Clarke thing and outside of her prescribed wild child phase and outside of her friends’ teasing, Lexa’s still overwhelmed with something _else_. Something separate from all those things.

Lexa pulls the angel close, and it’s there. She lets her hands wander, and it’s there. She tugs her closer, until flexible, feathered wings are folding into her chest, until all she can smell is perfume, and it’s there. She turns her around in her arms, until all she can hear outside of her own thoughts is the sound of the quick breaths that tickle her lip, and closer still, so that the tickle is replaced by pressure and suction and heat, but, still, there’s something else _there_.

This isn’t new. Lexa felt it with Harper, and she felt it with the one other girl she went home with, a week later, and, no matter how much she wishes it wasn’t, it’s not so much creeping up now as it is setting in, and dwarfing all the things she wishes she could focus on.

At first, she thought it was emptiness. She assumed that, since she didn’t know these girls, their last names or their majors or their dreams, being with them might feel shallow. She thought it might feel different than the fullness, the completeness, of what she once believed was the soulmate experience.

She didn’t spend hours laughing with these girls, or entire days talking to them. She didn’t spend years painstakingly learning them until she could fool herself into assuming she was an expert. None of them were Costia, and she didn’t want them to be. And she wasn’t Costia’s Lexa. Not anymore, not for them, never again, if she had any say.

So, she reasoned, it made sense to feel a little empty.

Slowly, entirely too slowly for Lexa’s taste, she thinks she’s finally figured it out, and it isn’t emptiness.

It’s never been emptiness.

Going home with girls whose last names she didn’t know, and kissing girls whose first names she could barely remember, and creeping away in the early hours of the morning isn’t emptiness.

It’s emptying.

It’s pouring her time and her energy and her thoughts into people she doesn’t even want to know, come morning.

It’s casual and it’s practically anonymous and it’s, quite possibly, the least satisfying thing Lexa has ever done. Even when it feels good, when she thinks she’s having fun or being reminded that she’s young and good-looking and alive, it’s hollow. Lexa doesn’t think she wants love, not if it makes her feel the way she felt after Costia, but she doesn’t want this, either.

She doesn’t know how much emptying she can do before she’s all hollowed out.

That pulls her out of the moment, out of her own head, out of this nameless girl’s arms with a stuttered apology and quick, thoughtless feet that direct her right back to where Clarke is still nursing her drink, the one stacked on top of Lexa’s empty cup to keep track of it for her, and eyeing Raven warily.

“Can I ask you something weird and too personal,” Lexa asks, catching the blonde by surprise as she slides back into her spot against the wallpaper. Somehow, it’s easier than ever to give in to the alcohol flowing in her veins, inspiring her to ask this wholly inappropriate question, without so much as screening it through the filter of her better judgment.

The corners of Clarke’s mouth fall further, for just a second, and she lowers the drink from her lips to ask, “Is this about that girl? Because if she did something—”

“It’s not about her,” Lexa says, “She didn’t do anything wrong.”

Clarke’s eyes dart off in the direction Lexa came from, as though she isn’t sure whether to believe the brunette, but she says, “Ask away.”

“When you were hooking up with _Finn_ ,” Lexa winces around his name, as though she shouldn’t use it around the blonde anymore, but she isn’t sure what else to use, “was it, like, fulfilling?”

“Uhh,” Clarke stutters for a second, her cheeks lighting up with pretty shade of pink, she laughs, but it’s awkward, coming out in short, uneven bursts before she asks, “Are you…are you asking if it was…good?”

“Oh, no, no,” Lexa says, face flaming, and she should stop herself now, when she’s being embarrassing and having trouble getting her point across in non-traumatic terms and flailing both hands in a panic before grasping onto Clarke’s arm too urgently, but, of course, the alcohol doesn’t agree. “No, god, not what I meant. Seriously, Clarke. I would never. I mean, that would be so,” she stammers, “and I’m not, well, I didn’t mean—”

When Lexa finally gets her mouth to stop running, her hands are still clasping Clarke’s forearm, a fact that Lexa has to see to believe, and one she has to believe before she can fix it. But, even when she looks down to see it, she still can’t seem to convince herself to let go, to step away and back out of this before it can get any weirder.

Clarke just laughs again at the abrupt silence, and uses her free hand to pat both of Lexa’s until the girl meets her eyes. She’s calm and encouraging, as though she hasn’t already been jostled into spilling some of her drink, and then transfers her cup into the hand Lexa doesn’t essentially have control of.

“What did you mean,” she presses, apparently unbothered by Lexa’s hopefully temporary inability to let her go.

“It’s silly,” Lexa warns, trying to consciously decide whether it’s sober Lexa or more-than-slightly-tipsy-Lexa that still thinks trudging ahead is a good idea.

“I can handle silly,” Clarke promises, and Lexa thinks the soberer version of herself would want to table this conversation indefinitely, or maybe forever, but Clarke is so sincere and she’s so much more open than Lexa could ever hope to be, and, after everything the other girl has been through lately, Lexa can’t imagine a better person to ask.

“Just…was it…like, outside of the sex,” Lexa struggles, “was it good for you?”

“Like, mentally,” Clarke asks, and there isn’t an edge of judgment or disbelief or even amusement to her voice. She waits for Lexa to shrug, and then to nod, and then the blonde looks very seriously at her, brow furrowed, and her bottom lip caught in her teeth, and she says, “Yeah, I guess it was. Before everything started turning to crap, I felt good. Powerful, I think. I could see him when I wanted and leave when I wanted, and, yeah, it was okay. Why?”

Sober Lexa would almost certainly not approve of the vulnerability Lexa knows she can’t hide when she pleads, “Promise you won’t make fun of me?”

“I’d pinky promise if you didn’t already have my whole arm,” Clarke tells her.

“Sorry,” Lexa starts, moving to release the girl. She isn’t far away when the blonde surprises her by leaning down far enough to sit her cup close to her foot, then coming back to her full height and offering her arm expectantly, until Lexa’s hands are on her forearm again, and then topping them with her free hand. When Lexa starts to open her mouth, blue eyes level her with a look that whooshes away the rest of her apology.

“What is it,” Clarke asks, and she does that thing where she tilts her head, and she could probably look at anyone with that face, but it feels like it’s just for Lexa, and the brunette doesn’t want love or lust, but she definitely wants _that_.

“I don’t know. I mean,” she lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding in and lets clearly-not-sober Lexa take over, “I mean, we’re young and attractive, well, conventionally attractive, or whatever, and we’re meeting tons of other relatively young, attractive people, and there’s probably not a better time to, you know,” she tries to gesture, tries to use her hands to emphasize what she means without words before remembering that they’re practically glued to Clarke’s arm and held in place by her hand, and can’t make herself hold the blonde’s gaze while she continues, “pursue, uh, _entanglements_ that don’t necessarily go anywhere. It only makes sense that we would do the mingling, and avoid the mess of romance and commitments, and—sorry. I’m rambling.”

Lexa’s cheeks flush, and, when she peeks at Clarke, the blonde doesn’t look annoyed or exasperated, just focused.

“You’re not,” she says quickly, then amends it to, “well, you are, but it seems like you’re getting somewhere.”

She cocks her head further to the side, palm firm and warm still over Lexa’s knuckles. She waits.

Lexa swallows thickly, forces herself to keep going.

“It’s just…Anya loves casual, you know? She thrives on it. A few years’ worth of conquests, and she’s still having fun. It just suits her, somehow. But, when I go home with someone, some girl I hardly know, it just makes me feel blank. Like, physically good, but kind of empty, like there should be more to it. Like, I’m pouring parts of myself into something, and not getting anything worthwhile out of it,” Lexa sucks in her cheeks and tries to gather her thoughts, presses on when Clarke doesn’t stop her, “Anya thinks I should be playing the field, or living out my wild child phase, or whatever, but I’m not sure. I don’t know if I want the entanglement without the romance, I guess. I don’t know if I’m cut out for it.”

It all comes out like a stream of thought, with Lexa barely battling the urge to look away from Clarke to get it all out, and then being absolutely paralyzed in her spot beside the blonde, spilling her guts about something she hasn’t even told Lincoln and Anya yet.

“Then stop,” is what Clarke says after a few seconds to make sure Lexa’s finished, as though it’s as simple as following her heart or her brain or whichever part of her won’t be content with anything less than everything.

“You make it sound so easy.”

“It is, sometimes,” the blonde smiles, “I only did what I did because it felt good. If it doesn’t make you feel good, don’t do it. Anya’s your best friend, Lexa. She probably just wants you happy, in her own way.”

Lexa thinks about what Clarke is saying. She looks out to the dancefloor, where Anya has another new dance partner, one in what looks like a boxy Lego costume, and realizes the blonde is right. Anya is Lexa’s best friend, and variety makes her happy, so, of course, she just wants Lexa to feel that, too.

Everything might be easier if Lexa could flip a switch and make her brain and body work a little more like Anya’s. But no, her scumbag brain is dead set on doing its own thing. She doesn’t want to want love or anything complicated, but she isn’t so sure she can force herself not to.

Lexa groans out loud.

“I’m so boring,” she says, shaking her head before letting it lull back against the wall.

“You know what you want,” Clarke counters.

“I’m a serial monogamist.”

“And a catch. Any girl would be lucky to land you,” Clarke says, squeezing her knuckles, “Boringness and all.”

Lexa narrows her eyes in a mock glare, just for a second, and then can’t keep herself from asking, “You mean that?”

“If you don’t know that by now, I don’t know what to tell you.”

“You’re a really good friend,” Lexa says, and she hopes the other girl knows that her assessment isn’t limited to this moment.

Clarke smiles, pats Lexa’s hand again, and her eyes are as soft as Lexa’s ever seen them when she tells her, “And _you_ deserve to be entangled, on your own terms, plus every bit of the romance, too.”

Lexa not sure if it’s the alcohol or if it’s just Clarke, but this feels like one of those moments, one of the ones that, apparently, Clarke hasn’t noticed. It’s one of those moments she’d have to work overtime to ignore, if she hadn’t already found an answer to the question it inspires. It’s a moment that, with the help of the drinks she’s finished, almost makes her want to ask anyway, to investigate further, to be unequivocally certain that Clarke would never consider herself _any_ girl.

Lexa thinks she’s lucky when it’s interrupted.

It isn’t the record-scratching, all-heads-turning drama of a movie scene, but it is two guys squaring up, their shouting match appearing from thin air and carrying over the noise of the band that hasn’t stopped. Lexa’s still holding Clarke’s arm when they see one of them, a short guy in a top hat, shoving the other, a blond guy in a Waldo costume, hard enough to send him flying in Lexa and Clarke’s direction, parting most of the crowd before he slams into the floor.

There are still bodies everywhere, intentional and unwitting spectators alike, all around the boys, but the blond lands less than ten feet away, and Lexa hears the thud. Even in the relative dimness, Lexa can make out the sneer on Top Hat’s face, the redness of his skin.

She has half a mind to charge out there and handle them both, and knows she could probably manage it, especially when she spots Anya not far from Top Hat and realizes she’d have backup. She almost goes, too, almost launches herself off the wall and into action, but then Clarke’s hand closes a little tighter over Lexa’s and the arm she’s holding hostage tucks tighter to Clarke’s abdomen, and she’s anchored into place.

It’s like Clarke can read her mind, without even taking her eyes off the guys, and holds her back, instead of letting her rush into the middle of somebody else’s problem. It’s, well, it’s probably necessary in this moment, Lexa thinks. The last thing she needs is to throw herself in the middle of Waldo and Top Hat’s stupid argument.

With a few drinks in her system, it was almost easy to forget how much Lexa hates frat parties. Combining booze and boys, especially the insecure types who Lexa just _knows_ are barely old enough to vote, and who would try to pummel each other after one accidentally brushed against the other on the dance floor, ranks high on her list of annoyances.

By the time Waldo is clumsily rising back up, his fists clenched, he and Top Hat have earned the attention of the whole party, including the few frat boys Lexa recognizes. She’s almost impressed by their efficiency, by Wells, who doesn’t hesitate to get in Top Hat’s face and push him backward, and Murphy who comes out of nowhere to catch Waldo’s arms and wrestle them until they’re trapped behind his back.

When the boys struggle against their holds, spewing insults at each other and trying their best to get around Wells and Murphy, a few more of the guys step in, all but dragging Top Hat and Waldo toward the front door, narrowly keeping them away from each other.

Clarke’s hand is still tight around Lexa’s, their shoulders brushing now, when Bellamy stands in the wide-open space in the middle of the floor that hasn’t quite filled back up since the band called it quits. All eyes fall to him, maybe because everyone knows he’s the president of the house, or maybe because Bellamy was the one who, when Top Hat somehow slipped past Wells and two other guys to charge at Waldo, clothes-lined him before he could make it far, and forced him into a headlock to escort him out personally.

His hat is missing, his face is flushed, his curls are wild, and that relaxed smile Lexa’s gotten used to is long gone.

“Listen up,” he shouts, both hands cupped around his mouth as he stands his ground, “If any of you want to kill each other tonight, get the hell out of this house first.”

He gives a quick turn-around, makes sure his message has reached every person in the room, in the house, even, then heads back in the direction he came from.

The message sinks in, and the faces in the crowd dart around, unsure of whether the party’s still happening or not, until the band picks up again. Even when the people on the dancefloor start filling in the gaps again, Lexa knows this party is as much over for her as the moment she thinks she might have been having with Clarke, just a little bit ago. 

“You okay,” Clarke asks, her brows knitted together. The blonde’s hand finally loosens around Lexa’s, and they disentangle themselves, reclaiming enough space not to be touching.

“Fine,” Lexa tells her, “You?”

“Ready to go, I think,” Clarke sighs. She looks out into the crowd, scans a couple times, sighs again. “Did you see where Raven went?”

Lexa looks to where she saw the girl most recently, where she was before the bodies on the floor were scattering and shifting to accommodate the scuffle, but she doesn’t see Raven, at first. Involuntarily, worry creeps into her brain, like it often does, more insistent than usual when she reminds herself, again, that they’re at a frat party that’s already teetering toward being out of control.

“I’m sure she’s around here somewhere,” Lexa says, for Clarke’s benefit, trying to project a façade of calm over her tipsiness and mentally planning the best way to comb through this entire house, in case Raven’s wandered off with some stranger.

“Nevermind,” Clarke says, absently touching Lexa’s forearm again, prodding her gently into looking in the same direction as the blonde.

Clarke pulls her hand back, but she’s somehow close enough that Lexa feels her sigh as her friend gets closer. She doesn’t want to, but Lexa kind of misses the contact. Lexa has a sneaking suspicion that Raven shouldn’t have been allowed to mix her own drinks.

The girl is wobbling when Anya steers her over, through the crowd, with two steady, gloved hands on each of Raven’s bare biceps, pushing and guiding her toward Lexa and Clarke, while Anya’s Lego-clad dance partner trails dutifully behind them. Raven’s bow is long gone, probably already drunkenly trampled. Her hair is mussed with sweat, sticking in places to her forehead. She’s giggling, too, her grin split wide, except in the moments when she’s craning her neck to talk to Anya.

From what Lexa can see of her, Anya is nodding and smiling along, even if it’s all nonsense.

Lexa and Clarke move apart again when their friends get closer, so Anya can deposit Raven between them. It’s gentle, the way she spins the girl around in her hands and offers just enough pull to make sure Raven doesn’t slam herself into place against the wallpaper, and it leaves Lexa barely hiding a smirk. Anya doesn’t usually have much patience for people who, well, Anya doesn’t usually have much patience for _anyone_ she hasn’t known for years.

Raven practically sinks into the wall, not in the typical slump of drunkenness, that involuntary surrender that happens when a body finally refuses to carry out any more whims of a reckless brain, but in a move that seems as casual as it is lacking in grace. Her grin doesn’t waver as her back straightens against the wall and her feet slide a foot or two from it. She sinks in height, absolutely liquid against the wall, and her eyes stay fixed on Anya in a way that Lexa’s almost sure she must be misreading.

It must be the alcohol clouding her own mind, Lexa thinks, because Raven appears to be looking Anya up and down like one of her little admirers, even while Anya’s chosen conquest of the night is only feet away, clearly waiting for her.

“You have really strong hands,” is what Raven says, and Lexa doesn’t think she’s misreading anything, after all. She and Clarke both stare down at Raven, then make eye contact in the foot-or-so of space over her, and, Lexa knows she and Clarke are on the same, very confusing, page, if only about this.

“Grew them myself, thanks,” Anya laughs, then settles into that same smile she had on when she was leading Raven over.

“We should probably start collecting everyone,” Clarke says, and Lexa knows she’s going to need a tall glass of water and a few minutes if she wants to be one of the friends who gathers the others, instead of one who needs to be corralled.

“What are the chances you two could manage this without my help,” Anya asks, looking to Clarke and then to Lexa, before darting her eyes to her periphery, where her dance partner waits, and back to Lexa. Her eyes narrow then, because Anya has an innate ability to sense the tipsiness Lexa’s working so hard to conceal or because Anya can practically hear the gears in Lexa’s head turning whenever she looks at Clarke or because Lexa is with the blonde instead of dancing her heart out with some stranger or because of some other thing that Lexa hasn’t even considered.

Whatever it is, it’s enough for Anya to say, “Nevermind,” before either Lexa or Clarke can answer her.

She spins on her heel, offers, _another time_ with a shrug to the human Lego waiting on her, and watches them wink and walk off. 

“I thought they’d never leave,” Raven says, grinning.

“So,” Clarke cuts in, pointedly ignoring Raven, “I would normally suggest we split up, but Octavia and Lincoln are probably together, and Wells is the only other person I’m looking for.”

“We should check in with Nyko, too,” Anya tells her, “but we might as well stick together.”

“Has anyone ever told ya’ that you could cut glass with those cheekbones,” Raven asks, and Lexa snorts before she can stop herself. Raven doesn’t seem to notice, though.

“You’re lucky number one,” Anya admits, clearly amused.

Clarke seems less amused, to say the least. She looks at Raven like she’s grown a third arm, but she doesn’t notice that, either.

“What do you think my chances of getting even luckier are,” Raven asks brazenly, still wobbling in place. Clarke flat out groans on one side of her, while Lexa has to slide her hand over her own mouth to keep the laugh from coming out.

“Wow,” Anya says, with a breathy laugh, “You’re a little drunk, aren’t you?”

“We should get out of here, Raven,” Clarke says gently, and Lexa sees her curl her hand around Raven’s elbow as clearly as she sees Raven shrugging it off and righting herself against the wall until she’s at her full height, still looking at Anya.

“I’m a genius, ya’ know” Raven says cockily, “Passed my sharps safety lab quiz with flying colors.”

Lexa laughs out loud, barely muffling it behind her hand, and it doesn’t deter Raven. Clarke just cringes, and tells Anya, “I am so sorry. She isn’t usually like this.”

Raven doesn’t even acknowledge Clarke apologizing on her behalf.

“It’s no big deal,” Anya says to Clarke, and then to Raven, “Look, Genius, any other night, and it’d be a sure thing. You’re hot as hell, and I’m really not opposed to the costume thing. Just…not tonight, okay?”

Lexa’s not sure whether Anya’s just placating Raven, whether she’s convinced the girl’s drunk enough that this’ll barely be a blip in her memory banks, or whether Anya’s offering a genuine rain check, but she’s going to tease the hell out of Anya, first chance she gets.

Raven pouts, like, full-on puppy dog eyes pouts, and asks, “Why not tonight?”

Anya gives her this look, something between pity and affection, lightly tinged with sadness, and Lexa thinks she knows what her best friend is thinking when she slowly admits, “Something tells me you wouldn’t be making this decision if you weren’t feeling…off.”

Not just drunk, although she definitely is, but something else. Something bigger. Something sadder. Something that, on some level, all four girls know Raven will still be grappling with for a while.

“God,” Raven scoffs, her pout shifting into something harder as she pushes off the wall to scowl in Anya’s face, “Not you, too. I can make my own decisions.”

“Raven, come on,” Clarke tries, with another cautious reach for her elbow, one more thing for Raven to shrug away from.

Lexa gets her back off the wall, turns to face Raven so Anya’s just over her shoulder. She keeps her mouth shut, gets ready to intervene on Anya’s behalf, in case her best friend’s patience finally wears too thin and she tries to say something she’ll regret.

“I just know you’re hurting,” Anya says, taking a half-step back. “I think we both do.”

“No,” Raven argues, “I know that I wanna feel good. I just wanna feel better.”

“And this,” Anya gestures between herself and Raven, “wouldn’t make you feel better.”

“You have a frickin’ laundry list of hook-ups, and they seem pretty okay, after you’re done with them,” Raven practically spits, and Lexa watches Clarke’s jaw drop. Lexa sees the way Clarke’s eyes change, go shiny and wide, like Raven’s changed shape before her eyes. And maybe she has.

“You’re drunk,” Lexa reminds Raven, stealing a glance over her shoulder at Anya, whose eyes are as stony as Clarke’s are watery. She’s grinding her teeth, and Lexa can imagine her trying her damnedest not to throw out whichever words come to her mind first.

“Okay,” Anya starts slowly, “that’s fucking rude, but okay. You’re drunk,” she says, probably reminding herself as much as Raven, “and you’re in pain, fine. But, for the record, I sleep with people who want _me_ , Raven. Not people who just want _something_ to chase all their problems away. Get your head together. Being hurt doesn’t mean you get to shit all over the rest of us.”

Clarke is still stunned, and now Raven looks near-tears, and when she opens her mouth, to apologize or to see if she can fit her foot any further into it, Anya just looks to Lexa and says, “Clarke and I will check in with everyone else. You two just stay put.”

The anger that flared in her seems to have petered out already, but Lexa knows a shut-down when she hears one.

If Clarke is surprised to be pulled along by Anya, instead of having to wait with Raven, she hides it well. Lexa gets a small frown, watches Clarke’s eyes flit toward Raven and away again, and then they’re off.

Raven flattens against the wall again. She watches the other two walk away, guilt coloring her face as much as sadness or drunkenness. Her lip quivers pathetically. Lexa still stands in front of her, still processing what she’s seen, still primed to try to diffuse something that probably can’t be diffused. She’s torn.

There’s a big part of her that wants to ignore the lip quiver and the glossy eyes and the defeated way that her whole body slumps into place, a part of her that doesn’t care whether Raven’s drunk or hurting, a part of her that is too stubborn to overlook the damage this girls been wreaking on their friends.

Few people are even capable of hurting Anya’s feelings, and Lexa’s never been inclined to let them get away with it.

There’s an entirely different part of her, one that’s quiet but insistent, reminding her that Raven Reyes is loved. Octavia and Wells and Bellamy, along with a few other people that Lexa’s come to respect, love Raven Reyes. Anya likes her well enough that the girl is here, on the edge of tears, brushed off instead of systematically destroyed by any of the most scathing of Anya’s verbal smackdowns. Clarke loves her so much that she’s willing to wait patiently for Raven to stop being what Lexa hopes is the worst version of herself.

The Raven Reyes who keeps hurting people? Lexa isn’t impressed by her. If given the chance, she’d probably leave that girl where she slumps. But, the Raven Reyes who is so loved that her friends haven’t run for the hills already? Lexa likes her. She thinks that girl needs more time and kindness than she’s willing to take. She also thinks the last thing she needs is to be a weepy mess in a frat house, where a fight just broke out and her shoes stick slightly to the floor.

“Do you have a house key,” Lexa asks.

Raven looks up slowly, like she’s genuinely shocked that Lexa’s speaking to her.

She nods, “We left one under the mat, in case we split up.”

Lexa tilts her head toward the path to the front door, smiles, and says, “Come on. I’ll walk you home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While this will presumably be the last update here until 2018, I've got some stuff lined up that I hope y'all will enjoy.
> 
> Happy holidays!


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke gets advice from an unexpected source.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back! It's 20gayteen, year of Dirty Computer and Expectations, so I'm going to sincerely try to regularly write some nice LGBTQ-focused stuff to keep that energy as alive for y'all as it has been for me.
> 
> Also, the comments I've gotten on this story, oh man, they've been so thoughtful and interesting and thought-provoking that I, a notably neurotic person, had to retreat for a while to wear sweaters and drink beers and ruminate on them all as I planned out where I want these characters to end up and how I want them to earn their way to happiness and forgiveness and junk. Many moons ago, this was my first fic, and the only thing I knew I wanted was the most cliche-ridden fic possible in which Clexa very slowly fall in love and also enjoy lasting friendships (because I'm trash for friendship IRL and in fic). Thanks to you benevolent Internet randos, I have a much clearer idea of what I want to write. It's a very good thing, and I think you'll get a better, more focused story moving forward.
> 
> Also, you might notice there are no more chapter titles. I tried to do a thing, and it was a million times harder and more stressful than I wanted it to be (so much so that choosing a title influenced what i wanted to put in a chapter and made me anxious to post anything even though I've gotten lots of wonderful encouragement), and so I'm not going to do that thing because I'd much rather just tell y'all a story without being a giant baby over whether I've curated every detail of it exactly right or not.
> 
> If you've been here from the beginning, IDK what you're doing, but I'm glad you're here. If you're new to this fic, I still don't know why you're here, but I'm equally glad you are.
> 
> For real though, thanks for reading!

“She isn’t always like this,” Clarke swears, shouting over the music as Anya pulls her gently by the wrist through the crowd, “Raven’s just…” Clarke almost doesn’t know how to finish her sentence, doesn’t know how to defend the kind of ugly anger she never thought she’d see in Raven Reyes, but can’t force herself not to try, “hurting. I’m sorry.”

Anya doesn’t acknowledge her for a few seconds, weaving Clarke through the crowd as it fills in, sweeping her head side-to-side to look for any of their friends. Clarke wonders if she’s noticed Clarke straining her voice to be heard over the music.

She wonders until Anya stops them. They’re on the stairs, going back down to the game room in the basement, in the middle of plenty of foot traffic, when Anya stops abruptly, but she doesn’t seem to care. A drunk girl in a deer costume runs into Clarke when she’s trying to stop her forward momentum, and, as soon as that girl opens her mouth, Anya glares her into turning the other way, until she’s joining the steady stream of people climbing up the stairs, before she can even grumble about it.

Clarke half-expects that glare to train itself on her, next, but it doesn’t.

Everything about Anya, the sharpness of her cheekbones and the severity of her eyes and the totally smudged, but somehow still intimidatingly edgy and cool black lipstick, makes Clarke brace herself to be glared at or yelled at or dismissed. But, instead, Anya’s expression goes soft, like it did at the pumpkin patch. It’s as far from a glare as can be.

Clarke worries it might be pity. She thinks it could be concern. She doesn’t know what to make of it, doesn’t know how to steel herself against something she can’t predict.

Anya sighs so hard she hits Clarke with a wave of vodka breath.

“This,” Anya says, waving her hand in a small, aimless circle, “isn’t my problem. And it isn’t yours either.”

Clarke opens her mouth to speak, to disagree or to apologize, but Anya stops her.

“It’s not _my_ job to accept her lashing out at me. And, honestly, if your other friends haven’t told you, that’s not yours, either,” Anya says. The two of them are still clogging up one side of the stairwell, getting jostled by people who try to slip past them, and Anya doesn’t seem to care.

“I’m half the reason she feels like this,” Clarke says miserably, trying to keep the corners of her mouth from pointing downward. Raven can say she’s forgiven Clarke, and she can say she’s trying to move forward, but she’s clearly not okay, and Clarke can’t let herself stop thinking about the why of it.

She can’t forget, and she can’t compartmentalize, and she can’t let go of the heavy responsibility that comes with accidentally torpedoing her friend’s life and realizing she can’t even begin to fix it.

Anya looks Clarke in the eye and says, with one hand gripping onto Clarke’s shoulder and a voice laced with what sounds like absolute conviction, “You fucked up, and then you owned up and apologized. It sucks that Raven’s in pain, and I know she doesn’t deserve to be, but if she tries to punish you for it or freaks out and insults people who,” Anya rolls her eyes and huffs and steals back the hand on Clarke’s shoulder to run it through her own wig, “kind of like being around her when she isn’t so fucking toxic, then you don’t have to mope around apologizing for it.”

Clarke feels her phone buzz in her bra, but the look Anya’s giving her, the one that’s fierce and sincere, and maybe a little sharp around the edges, stops her from fishing it out. It could be any one of her friends, and she should check, but, if Anya, of all the people Clarke knows, is the one giving her this sort of talk—Anya who, according to Lexa, is basically allergic to drama—Clarke thinks she ought to listen.

“Raven’s feelings are hers,” Anya stresses. “Her actions are hers. They aren’t on you, Clarke. Okay?”

No “Blondie”, no clever-but-kinda-scathing jokes, no running away from this impossible situation that Anya doesn’t really have to be a part of if she doesn’t want to be.

Just honesty, direct and unflinching and expecting to be absorbed.

It isn’t hard to understand why Anya means so much to Lexa. Later, Clarke thinks, when her friends are all accounted for and she isn’t in a silly costume and the monster of Raven’s pain isn’t looming over her, she’ll count herself lucky to have Anya as a friend.

Of course, by then she’ll also be dealing with all the stuff she’s not really equipped to handle right now, like the calculus project she hasn’t wrapped her head around or the shift she’s dreading a day before it happens or the mental image of Lexa with some random girl’s tongue down her throat.

She has what feels like a million things to think about, and they might be small in the grand scheme of things, but they feel huge and daunting right now. She just hopes she doesn’t forget to appreciate this tiny sliver of luck, of fortune, of newfound friendship amidst alcohol-soaked drama.

Clarke can’t take everything on at once, but she can try her best to give Anya what she’s looking for.

“Okay,” Clarke agrees, and then Anya turns around, fumbles blindly for Clarke’s wrist, and pulls her the rest of the way down the stairs.

Clarke thinks Anya is only pretending not to hear the _thank you_ she calls out when they reach the bottom, so she just smiles at the back of her head and lets her.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raven's a mess, but, according to Lexa, she won't always be.

Raven is retching over the toilet by the time Lexa gets a reply from Clarke, thanking her for walking Raven home.

She’d texted the blonde as she and Raven made their way out of the house, while Raven walked beside her, swaying slightly, but looking more ashamed than drunk. There was a slur to the few words Raven said in their short walk, and Lexa had steadied her by offering her elbow when she almost wiped out on a spot of uneven cement in the middle of a quiet street.

Lexa was fumbling for the hidden key when Raven covered her mouth.

She was slow, controlled, so nonchalant that Lexa might not have noticed she was about unleash all over the ground if not for the few seconds of quiet gagging that proceeded Raven sidestepping away from the walk to lean over the grass in front of the bushes.

It took a few solid minutes of rubbing her back and accepting her stilted apologies and standing as far away as long arms would allow before Lexa could talk Raven into running for the bathroom.

It’s sort of Lexa’s worst nightmare, reading the blonde’s text with one hand, praying not to drop her phone on the hard bathroom tile, and holding back the long, free end of Raven’s ponytail with the other.

She hates vomit.

The sound of it hitting the toilet water, and the one Raven makes as her back bows and her shoulders contract and she gags around the taste of it. The smell that practically burns her nostrils even when she leans away. The look of it, all liquid-y and dark and swirling with bits undigested party snacks.

Between the sound and the smell and the look of it, Lexa can’t settle on which is the worst part. It doesn’t seem productive to try. Instead, she focuses. On holding Raven’s hair back, on averting her own eyes from the toilet bowl, on not recoiling when Raven starts to cry, and Lexa feels so out of place, so out of her depth.

“It’s okay,” Lexa says, sliding her phone into her pocket and rubbing Raven’s back again, “Let it out.”

Raven doesn’t need the encouragement, clearly. She couldn’t stop herself even if Lexa weren’t trying to coach her through this.

A few more retches, and then Raven’s body settles, pathetically, for a little longer than she’s managed in the last half hour. She sighs, lets her shoulders fall, makes them seem so heavy Lexa’s afraid the hand she’s settled on the other girl’s back is weighing her down.

Lexa doesn’t like the idea of it, isn’t convinced she’s offering more comfort than burden, so she takes her hands away, lets Raven’s ponytail flop against her and lets herself break contact with the material of Raven’s costume.

“I don’t know why I said that to Anya,” Raven says, folding her arms on the edge of the toilet seat to support her chin. She sighs again, and Lexa watches her shoulders sink even further. That same gentle slur affects her words, but, honestly, Lexa thinks she sounds more defeated than drunk. More tired than trashed. “Do you think she’ll forgive me?”

If anybody else asked Lexa the same question, she’d answer in a heartbeat. No, Anya wouldn’t forgive them. She’d move forward, maybe even choose to be mercifully ambivalent if she was ever forced to be in the same room as them, but she wouldn’t forget, and she damn sure wouldn’t forgive.

Anya can hold a grudge better than anyone Lexa knows.

But, this is Raven Reyes, and Anya’s already cut her more slack than she’d spare for most people.

“I don’t know,” Lexa admits, picturing the way Anya had pulled Clarke away, “but you can try apologizing.”

“You’re right.”

When Raven flushes the toilet, leans back far enough to avoid the spray of water, starts moving to push herself onto her feet.

Lexa doesn’t hesitate to anchor Raven to the floor, then, both hands on Raven shoulders, resisting any upward momentum she could muster with both legs tucked beneath her.

“I don’t mean right now,” Lexa says, “Maybe wait until you can go a few hours without—”

Like clockwork, Raven leans over the bowl to vomit again.

“That,” Lexa finishes, twirling the end of Raven’s ponytail again to keep it from skimming the toilet. “Trust me, you want to wait until you’re sober.”

When Raven’s done this time, after a particularly bad cough and gag, she laughs wetly.

“Trust me,” she echoes, “I’m fucking things up sober, too.”

She spits after the words leave her mouth, takes a deep breath and flushes the toilet. She runs her fingers through her hair, from the top of the ponytail down, so the ends slip through Lexa’s fingers as Raven adjusts the way she’s sitting. She’s been kneeling, lifting herself with some effort while she leans over the toilet, and Lexa hears the way she groans as she extends one leg first, then sort of rolls herself until she can sit without either of them under her.

Raven uses her hands to pull herself across the tile until her back is pressed against the side of the tub.

There’s a long beat of silence, while Lexa observes Raven, tries to gage whether she’s being too ambitious by pulling herself from the toilet.

“Don’t know if you can tell,” Raven says, breaking the silence, “but I’m kind of a mess these days.”

Lexa moves, too. She scoots ungracefully until she’s beside Raven, an arm’s length away.

“Yeah,” she agrees, because anyone with functioning senses, anyone who’s been around Raven recently would know she’s a mess. Lexa doesn’t see the point in pretending otherwise.

Raven almost laughs, but the sound she lets out is too short and too pained to register as amusement, “Aren’t you supposed to disagree with me? Tell me I’m,” she rolls her eyes, “just processing, or whatever the fuck O keeps saying?”

Lexa laughs then, not to hurt Raven’s feelings or to make her feel any more exposed than she already does, but because Lexa thinks Raven has enough people in her life willing to pretend to believe she’s fine until the pretending makes it so.

Lexa sees the kindness in it, but she sees the futility, too.

“No,” she says looking into Raven’s red-rimmed doe eyes, “You are definitely a mess.”

“Yeah,” Raven says quietly. Her mouth pulls to the side, in something of a grimace, and her eyes get shinier, “I am.”

“But,” Lexa adds with a small smile, “you won’t always be.”

“You don’t know that,” Raven argues with a sniffle.

Lexa hasn’t spent much time with Raven before tonight, and they’ve never had a reason to be alone together, so it takes Lexa a long time, too much time, even, to adjust to a Raven Reyes with no bluster. It’s jarring to see her teary-eyed and unsure and ashamed.

But Lexa means what she says, that Raven won’t always be this messed up.

“I do,” Lexa promises. She can’t predict a timeline, or offer any concrete evidence befitting of a scientist, but Lexa believes that Raven will get to the other side of all this, and, if she’s willing to let herself move on, she’ll be better because of it.

“How do you,” Raven asks. She flips up her ponytail, so the length of it hangs over the lip of the tub, and she can rest her bare neck against the coolness.

Lexa wonders how she’d answer that if her cheeks weren’t still a little whiskey-warm, if her head hadn’t been swimming, just a little, even as she’d led Raven home and gotten her inside. She can’t be certain, but she doesn’t think the words that float to the top of her mind are the ones she’d share.

Maybe, if Lexa’s guard wasn’t already down, if she hadn’t spent some of her night searching for the sweet spot of public drunkenness and some of it feeling like an idiot for not being able to control her feelings and some of it trying to stave off disappointment, she wouldn’t be admitting, “I was a mess, once,” and offering Raven a smile that doesn’t keep her from gulping once the words are out.

Lexa sort of hates talking about it, actually.

But, just like the whiskey made it harder to remember why she doesn’t want to like Clarke, it makes her forget how much she hates talking about this, too, for a short while.

She tries to undercut herself with humor, jokes through a smirk she has to force, “I didn’t try to get Anya into bed or anything,” and almost regrets saying it until Raven groans out a pained laugh and lets her continue, “but I was undeniably a mess.”

“You’re not now,” Raven observes, slumping down against the bathtub and folding her arms over her midsection.

“I’m not now,” Lexa says. Reminds herself, really, because, if she isn’t careful, if she doesn’t nip this stupid, small, harder-to-ignore-everyday crush in the bud, she could get herself all messed up again. She remembers now, away from Clarke, out of the darkness of the party, why she doesn’t want to feel anything for the blonde.

“But there was a girl,” Raven asks, looking up at Lexa through her lashes.

Lexa turns her body, scoots a little further from Raven so her back is against the wall instead of the tub and draws her knees up to her chest to wrap her arms around them.

“Yeah,” Lexa says, looking down at the material of her cargo pants with a sigh, “there was a girl. Costia.”

“And, let me guess,” Raven says, wincing as she squeezes one of her knees, the bad one, Lexa thinks, just for a second, and letting out another sigh, “she took your heart, ate it, and shat it out on the sidewalk.”

Raven looks back to Lexa’s face, and Lexa forces herself to stop focusing on the way the pants feel under her hands, the way the cold of the wall seeps into the part of her bare spine that presses against it, the way her phone strains in the pocket against her thigh, on anything but telling Raven a story she thinks might help.

“It wasn’t like that, exactly. She didn’t cheat on me, and I know, it’s not the same as what you’re going through,” Lexa says, looking into sad brown eyes, “I can’t even imagine…” she trails off, starting to pick at a cuticle, “but yeah, she still mangled my heart.”

Lexa gnaws on her lip, fiddles with her hands, stares up at ceiling trying to find a way to describe Costia, to impress upon Raven the way this person she loved so much, someone who never really meant to hurt her managed to do just that, and how it’s at all comparable to the level of betrayal Raven’s reeling from.

“Costia was my friend first,” Lexa explains, “I was a gangly little know-it-all, barely fifteen, and I didn’t really believe in falling in love when I met her. I don’t remember if it was because I was trying to be edgy or because I’m a natural skeptic or because I’d never felt anything like it,” she shrugs, “I just didn’t think I was capable of it.”

Lexa thinks back. She remembers the other girls in her class pairing off with the boys, remembers knowing, deep down, that she didn’t want to follow suit. She remembers that grappling with her sexuality was a quick process, and a painless one, that it never cost her a wink of sleep.

But love? The idea of finding it, of even looking? That kept her up at night, baffled and suspicious.

“It’s not like I had some great reason,” she muses, thinking of her parents, of the perfect example she had of kismet or soulmates or whatever the hell it is that’s kept her mom and dad all moony-eyed over each other for thirty years, “but I didn’t expect it. To feel it, or to want it. Not like… not like I felt for her.”

She looks at Raven, who’s, thankfully, done hugging the toilet for a while, and staring up with half-lidded eyes like a child listening to a bedtime story.

“For a year, I got to know her, and I just,” Lexa shakes her head thinking about the way she felt, in the beginning, “fell.”

“And she didn’t love you back,” Raven asks, her voice quiet.

“Oh, she loved me back,” Lexa says, clearing her throat, “for a little more than three years, we were together. It was,” Lexa takes a deep breath, lets it whoosh out of her while Raven just watches, “It was so easy, too. I thought it was easy, at least. She was easy to love, really. Once I started, I just… She was good, one of the best people I knew, I think,” she says, “So good that I figured, sure, why not just love her forever? I could barely remember having any doubts, because she was all I could see.”

It wasn’t fair of Lexa, suggesting Costia mangled her heart.

Lexa, clinging to what she thought they were both seeing, broke her own heart.

“You were with him for a long time, right,” she asks Raven, avoiding his name, because she doesn’t know how the other girl will react.

“Yeah,” Raven croaks out, “For what felt like forever.”

“It was only three years for me,” Lexa says, “but it’s like I couldn’t remember anything else. We had all these memories, and we had a million plans for after college. _I_ had a million plans for us. Three years, and it was still easy, so every version of my future revolved around having Costia there, too, and I always thought…She always said,” Lexa remembers, “we were on the same page. It was easy, and I thought that meant it was perfect, and so, when Costia dreamed up a future that didn’t include me, I felt blindsided.”

Lexa’s eyes well up without her consent. They always do, when she thinks about the end.

“She wasn’t like him,” Lexa says again, because, “she didn’t hurt me on purpose. It wasn’t malicious. She just saw something I didn’t want to see, a life for herself that didn’t revolve around the only love I’d really believed in for myself, and she even made herself miserable for a while, just to keep that dream alive for me. Her plans changed, and she didn’t want me in them anymore, and I don’t really know if it was something I did or didn’t do, and it probably doesn’t matter now, but eventually, she did tell me, and it felt like the ground slipped out from beneath my feet. So, yeah, it felt like she ripped my heart out.”

“How’d you deal,” Raven asks, face streaked in tears, just like Lexa’s is, “How did you make your heart stop feeling all digested?”

She looks at Lexa so expectantly, like there’s a concrete answer to be found in all this.

“Not much better than you are now,” Lexa admits. “I felt lied to. I was angry. Embarrassed. I avoided my friends, because I could tell they pitied me, and I didn’t want them to. My parents, too. I knew they loved me,” Lexa says, thinking of a solid month of finding reasons not to spend more than a few minutes alone with anyone who knew her too well, “and they had nothing to do with how terrible I felt, but being with Costia was everything. In hindsight, it was too much,” she laughs self-deprecatingly, “I made it too much, but, for three years, I couldn’t even see myself, couldn’t think of myself without considering her, too. And it felt fine until she was gone, and I realized I felt like nothing without her. I couldn’t remember who I’d been without her.”

“I hope you’re about to tell me there was some magical cure,” Raven says, her chin quivering, “Because I can barely remember who I was before Finn, and I don’t know how.”

Raven swipes at her eyes, just once, and quickly, like she thinks Lexa won’t notice she was ever crying at all. It only makes the mascara that’s already started to run smear.

Lexa swallows around the lump in her throat, looks Raven in the eye and admits, “It’s hard. You just,” she pauses, thinks back to being in the thick of it, heartbroken and lost and desperately trying not to be either of those things, “keep existing. You take some time to feel sorry for yourself, and then you live your life.”

“I’m not usually great at that part,” Raven admits, still slumped beside the bathtub, her voice thick with emotion, “the feeling sorry for myself thing. But it sounds pretty damn good right about now. How long do you think I can get away with it?”

“I moped about Costia for months,” Lexa says, and then wondering if it’s more or less embarrassing that, “I mourned my relationship like a death.”

“I wouldn’t peg you for a mourner,” Raven says, while Lexa rubs away her own tears.

“I’m not,” she tells her, and Lexa’s never said it aloud, never even contemplated it, really, but it feels important, and it feels like Raven might understand, “I spent my life thinking I’d never love anyone—I mean, I love my family and my friends—but Costia? I never thought I’d love someone like that. Never thought I’d want to spend all my time with someone or make all my plans around them or that I’d be happy to keep learning all the smallest, silliest things about someone after knowing them for years.”

Lexa looks at the tile, at the splintered wood of the cabinet below the sink, at her own hands. A year after the fact, and sometimes she’s still shocked to be on the other side of this feeling. Sometimes she’s still shocked she ever felt so strongly. And for what?

“But there I was,” she tells Raven, “And then she was gone, and it was like, okay, if I can love someone and it won’t make them stay, then what’s the point? All the work I put in and all the time I spent loving Costia, it just made it hurt more when she left. So, I mourned.”

If she’d said that to Lincoln, Lexa thinks she’d be practically squeezed to death in a bone-crushing hug right now. Anya, too, even though they’d both pretend it never happened later. She thinks the people who know her best, the people who have the best idea of what she was like in Costia’s wake, would try their best to comfort her, and to chase away the feelings that she wishes had evaporated after a year of time to process. She’s almost sure they would.

They would hold her while she cried, and they’d remind her that they love her, and they’d tell her until she got into her sometimes-thick head that they’d never leave, that she’s stuck with them forever.

But Lexa also knows they wouldn’t understand.

She knows they wouldn’t sink further into the floor, like Raven does, or sigh deeply and say, barely above a whisper, “That makes sense.”

Raven flexes one leg, then extends it, watches herself the whole time, so intently that Lexa thinks she’s done speaking.

And then.

“I knew I could love someone,” Raven says, “It never crossed my mind to think I couldn’t. But,” her mouth twists, then she flexes the other leg with a little more effort, still staring, “until Finn, I didn’t think anyone would love me back.”

The way she says it, so frankly and with such fatigue, hits Lexa like a gut punch.

Raven lets out another of those humorless laughs, another harsh puff of air, and, when she looks at Lexa, a quick turn of her head before she sweeps her gaze away again, her eyes are bloodshot.

“He was the first person who ever…” Lexa watches Raven’s hand ghost over her knee, “I had no one, when we were kids. My family,” she trails off, pressing down, then pulling back just as quickly, “I was alone, and then Finn loved me, and I wasn’t anymore. I didn’t even know why.”

Her hand moves, she fiddles with the hem of her costume, tugs it lower on her thighs, and Lexa waits for her to go on.

“He didn’t even want anything. Didn’t ask for anything. I didn’t have to do anything, or change myself, or try,” Raven says slowly, like she’s reviewing the parts of an assignment that doesn’t make sense, “He just loved me, when nobody else did, and I thought it would always be like that. As easy as letting him.”

Lexa shifts again, moves so her back is resting against the tub, settles herself just a little closer to Raven than she had been.

Raven isn’t crying when she looks up at Lexa and says, “He wasn’t supposed to stop.”

Raven slides all the way down then, so her back is flat against the floor, then squeezes her eyes shut.

Lexa doesn’t know what to say. She wants to know “nobody” means, wants to know how in the world Finn fucking Collins was the first person who Raven knew loved her, wants to have the power to mine Raven’s history and prove her wrong, to find someone else who loved her, someone who didn’t ruin it so spectacularly. Lexa wants to rewrite Raven’s history if that’s what she has to do to make it so.

But she can’t.

Instead, Lexa slides down until she’s lying beside Raven. She moves a little closer, until their shoulders are just inches apart, not touching, but close enough that Raven knows she’s there, even without looking.

“The first person who ever loved me stopped. What if everybody else does, too?”

The last part she adds so quietly that Lexa isn’t sure she’s supposed to hear it or respond.

Clarke, Lexa knows, loves Raven even after everything they’ve been through, even after the things Raven’s put her through. Clarke loves Raven after being insulted, loves her after being frozen out for a month, loves her even if she’s not sure how to be herself.

Lexa looks at Raven beside her, her eyes still shut tight, and she thinks about telling her that, reminding her that there is probably nothing she can do to make Clarke, or Octavia or any of her real friends, stop, but she doesn’t know if that’s what Raven wants to hear right now, at least not yet.

She could take a page from her mother’s playbook, give her the same advice that her sister got after a nasty break-up: _if someone else won’t love you, then you learn to love yourself_. It comforted her sister, once upon a time, and it comforted Lexa, too, when she was too young to need it and eavesdropping from the hall, but she thinks it was mostly effective because of their mother’s tone, and, no matter how much she wishes she could, she can’t exactly recreate that for Raven.

Instead, Lexa scoots closer still, so her shoulder bumps into Raven’s, and she offers, “If that happens—and, for the record, I don’t think it will, or even could—then you call me, and I’ll be there to commiserate with you. However you want.” She smiles softly at Raven, even though Raven’s eyes haven’t opened yet, because she’s surer than ever that Raven needs the kindness and deserves it, too. “We can feel sorry for ourselves or get drunk and pretend not to feel sorry for ourselves, or whatever. However you want to mourn,” Lexa promises, “you won’t have to do it alone.”

Raven peeks at her then, one eye opening and sizing Lexa up, perhaps to figure out if the offer is genuine or not. It slips closed again, and then, “You’re a good person, Lexa.”

Lexa hums, looks at the ceiling. She’s trying to be.

“I see why Clarke…” Raven starts, and Lexa looks at the side of her face when she stops just as quickly. The words hang in the air for a long few seconds, long enough for Lexa to mentally fill that space with all the words she hopes to hear, before Raven settles on, “I see why she respects you so much.”

“She’s a good person, too,” Lexa says, without any fire. She knows it and Raven knows it, but it’s worth saying.

“Better than she knows,” Raven agrees.

They find themselves in another patch of quiet, of lying side-by-side on cold, hard tile, and, again, Raven is the one to cut through it.

“Lexa,” she says.

“Yeah?”

“I’m gonna puke some more, I think,” she admits, letting out a long breath through her nose.

Lexa looks over, and, sure enough, Raven looks just a little paler than she did a minute ago, and her arms are wrapped around her midsection.

She hates it, the vomit stuff. Abhors it, really. But Lexa hoists herself up, and she reaches out to help Raven back to her knees, and she holds the other girl’s hair back just the same, because she’s damn sure not making Raven going through it alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my head, for several months, I've been like "man, Raven and Lexa should kind of be friends. They have stuff in common. When's that gonna happen?" And then I remembered I have to actually physically write stuff if I want it to happen. It was a jarring realization.


End file.
